duck-shaped pain

M. [1] writes:

It could be a mess. Or it could just be a pile of stuff in transition, a grouping of items that is en route to its home elsewhere in the house.

Okay. That last thing is just being generous. It's a mess. Sure, there might be some sort of hidden inner logic to its arrangement, but it's still sort of a mess.

Not sure about this house-sitting thing. It's a nice enough place -- tidy, lawn mowed, no squirrels to be seen anywhere -- and its occupant bribed me into doing it with a basket containing a pot of leek soup, some non-vegan pie crust and a bag of chicharrones. Actually, most of the house was not a mess, although it certainly looked lived in, eh. Books scattered about, several shoe-infested corners, nothing major.

But then I happened to stop by the office.

And that's where the mess was.

Things everywhere. Things you wouldn't expect to see. Velvet paintings. Big-ass lamps. Generic decorative sculptures. Lots of throw pillows. Like a 1970s swinger's pad, but without the earth tones, gold medallions or the action.

Thrust right into the middle of this scene is a plant which looks sadly out of place. A flaccid-looking blue lobelia in a pot hanging from the middle of the room.

Attached to it is a note from its owner:

"Please please help me, M. This is the whiniest, pickiest plant known to man. I place it inside. It wilts. I take it outside. It sulks. I give it water. It gives up. I let it dry out a little. It repays me with disdain. I lavish attention on it. It rejects me. I ignore it. It stays exactly the same. Please use your magic gardening touch to knock some sense into my indifferent plant. Sincerely, S."

How can I refuse?

I talk to the lobelia softly in my honeyish, patented Now Look Here, Stubborn Plant voice. Revealing what I said to it is a trade secret, but let's just say that it was equal parts sweet lovin' and fear invokin'.

That lobelia straightened right up. It took its water. It blossomed like a spring lily. It showed respect to its elders. It handed out backrubs for free.

Ah, I thought, my work here is done. All the greenery is in line. Time to go off and whip other people's errant shrubs into performing right. And with that, I left. Besides, I have many other, better things to do on my birthday�.[2]

[1] Everyone gets an initial for a name here in DSP land, even the famous.

[2] Happy birthday, Marn!

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