Vengeful Cactus

My office has a plethora of plants. On purpose.

Walk in and you'll see flowers bursting with bright pinks, purples and yellows. Daffodils sparkle in the rays shining through the windowpanes (well, not windowpanes as much as a transom leading to the basement, but still, you get the idea). Lilies and lilacs add life to the shelves. Behind my desk against the window, the green resembles the rich forest of the Amazon.

They are lovely. They are beautiful. They are fake.

I hate plants.

Plants in my care never survive. They die fast. I waste no time in mourning them. The one live plant in my office is a cactus. It has survived despite everything I have done.

Because of this, we have developed a relationship.

I have had it for 6 years, at one point putting it in the office lounge, more or less abandoning it. I would water it once a week, or whenever I would remember. Despite my desertion, it lived.

At a weak moment, I felt guilty and I decided to take it back into my office.

It was a little bit like going back to an old boyfriend, something you do even when you know better.

Not that I'm bitter, but this lousy plant is now taking up more of my energy than I would like to admit.

Today, for example, I had to go buy some kind no-doubt incredibly toxic bug spray because some kind of weird living creatures would poof out of the cactus when I watered it. When I say "water it," I mean "pour my left-over coffee, Diet Coke, seltzer," and yes, on occasion "water" in it (I actually believe this plant likes coffee, or at least has a natural preference for caffeinated beverages). It's quite huge. I believe it possesses the kind of passive violence inherent in one of those poorly brought up dogs seen on animal cop shows.

It is, after all, a cactus. It has the power to inflict pain. It has quills. And I know it wants to.

The only person I have found who shares not only my contempt but my active disdain is Fran Lebowitz, who said: "plants are the root of all evil." Here's an excerpt from her brilliant book, Metropolitan Life, concerning the fact that plants are defined by the idea that a plant "Generally Makes Its Own Food":

"There is, I believe, something just the tiniest bit smug in that statement. And Generally Makes Its Own Food, does it? Well, bully for It. I do not generally make my own food, nor do I apologize for it in the least. New York City is fairly bristling with restaurants of every description and I cannot help but assume that they are there for a reason. Furthermore, it is hard to cherish the notion of a cuisine based on photosynthesis. Thus, since I have yet to detect the aroma of Fettuccine Alfredo emanating from a Boston fern, I do not consider And Generally Makes Its Own Food to be a trait of any consequence whatsoever. When you run across one that Generally Makes Its Own Money, give me a call."

Perfect.

My discomfort doesn't stop with plants, either. It extends towards nature in general. In this I am backed up by British author, Fay Weldon, who says, "A good woman knows that nature is her enemy. Look at what it does to her. Give her a packet of frozen fish fingers any day, and a spoonful of instant mashed potato, and a commercial on the telly to tell her it's good."

At home, I have plants in ever room, made from the finest silk. They always look their best and require minimal care. Every other week I dust them, and once in a while I throw them in a tub and hose them off.

I am content looking out the window at the humidity, with the AC on full blast. And for now, I am quite happy with my cactus as the only living creature with whom I have to share my workspace-apart, of course, from the 200 or so students I see each day, all of whom have their own quills, their own thirst for coffee and Diet Coke, and their own need for real care.