I had a lovely dessert today with my friend Lauri, who is pregnant, which got me thinking about babies. I will not be obtaining any babies, a decision I came to three years ago when I discovered exactly how hard it was to take care of another living creature, a.k.a. my dog. I am not, apparently, the nurturing sort.

I bring this up because, after our lovely dessert, Lauri accompanied me to a plant store, where I attempted to buy a ficus tree. Only the man who ran the store was determined that I not buy a ficus tree because they are notoriously difficult to take care of, so I finally settled on a large pot of bamboo. As I was paying for this, the man asked, “Are you good with plants?”

It was a fair question, and I opened my mouth to say “Of course!” Only I suddenly flashed to a project I created while working on my MA in graphic design. It was supposed to be a “designed personal statement,” but I could think of nothing except to scan withered leaves from all of the plants I had killed, which surrounded my desk and pointed at me accusingly with their twisted bare branches. I called it “The Death of Plants” and got an A+.

The “of course” lodged in my throat, and I was able to emit only a small gagging sound. “Is this your first plant?” the man asked. He went on to give a detailed lecture about watering and sunlight and blah blah blah. I can’t remember a word of it, except that it sounded infinitely more complicated than the dog, which is difficult enough. I hope Lauri didn’t start having second thoughts about that baby.

The bamboo just arrived at my apartment, and other than coming up with a name for it (Shamu Butterpot, P.I.), I don’t know what to do.

Pray that the poor thing doesn’t end its days in “The Death of Plants II.”