Just Relaxed Blog

Tag: observant plants

  • Why I’m Convinced My Houseplant is Judging My Life Choices

    Why I’m Convinced My Houseplant is Judging My Life Choices




    Do Houseplants Judge Us? My Leafy Roommates Seem to Think So

    We’ve all been there. You’re having a particularly rough day, and the only witness to your shame-spiral is a leafy friend sitting on your windowsill. But what if that leafy friend wasn’t just a silent observer? What if, behind those vibrant green leaves, lived a judgmental roommate who chronicled your every move?

    My Fiddle Leaf Fig Takes Sides in Family Drama

    It all started innocently enough. I was chatting on the phone with my mom, a woman whose love language is unsolicited advice. As she launched into her weekly critique of my dating life (“Honey, you’re not getting any younger!”), I noticed a change in Ferdinand, my fiddle leaf fig. His leaves, usually perky and full of life, began to droop. Was he…wilting?

    At first, I brushed it off. Maybe he needed water. But then, as my mother continued her well-intentioned but brutal assessment of my life choices, Ferdinand took it up a notch. One by one, his leaves began to yellow, like tiny, botanical surrender flags waving in the face of my existential crisis. It was as if he was saying, “She’s right, you know. Get your act together.”

    Choices

    Ferdinand isn’t the only one with opinions. Penelope, my peace lily, is a master of passive-aggressive judgment. Take, for instance, the Great Instant Ramen Incident of 2023. I was having a particularly harried week, fueled by deadlines and two-minute noodles. As I slurped down my fourth consecutive bowl of sodium-laden goodness, Penelope took a stand. Or rather, a slump.

    Her once-proud blooms, which usually resembled delicate white sails, shriveled up faster than my hopes of ever owning a home with my current dietary choices. I swear I even heard a faint, disapproving sigh coming from the general vicinity of her pot.

    Of course, it’s entirely possible that I’m projecting. Maybe Ferdinand was just thirsty. Maybe Penelope was battling a nasty case of aphids. But it’s hard to ignore the feeling that my plants are privy to my deepest insecurities, silently judging my every move from their ceramic pedestals.

  • Why I’m Convinced My Houseplant is Secretly Judging Me

    Why I’m Convinced My Houseplant is Secretly Judging Me



    Why I’m Convinced My Houseplant is Secretly Judging Me

    The Side-Eye Heard ‘Round the Living Room

    It happened again this morning. You know that feeling when you’re rushing around, trying to make coffee, find your keys, and not trip over the laundry mountain, all while sporting questionable bedhead? Yeah, that feeling. As I scrambled past, coffee mug sloshing precariously, I swear I saw it. A slight shift in the leaves of my monstera deliciosa, a barely perceptible tilt of its stem. Was that…judgment?

    Okay, maybe I’m being a tad dramatic. But ever since I became a plant parent (a term I use loosely, considering my track record), I can’t shake the feeling that my houseplants are silently observing my every move. And honestly, I’m not sure they like what they see.

    Brenda, my peace lily. Now, Brenda arrived with a reputation. “Low-maintenance,” they said. “Almost impossible to kill.” Challenge accepted, I thought.

    Turns out, Brenda thrives on routine. She likes her water on Tuesdays and Thursdays, a gentle misting every other day, and absolutely no direct sunlight between the hours of 1 pm and 3 pm. I, on the other hand, am a creature of chaos. I water when I remember (which, let’s be honest, is usually when Brenda’s leaves start to droop dramatically), and my concept of routine is remembering to brush my teeth twice a day (most days).

    So, it should come as no surprise that Brenda and I have a…complicated relationship. Every time I walk by, her leaves seem to wilt just a little lower, as if to say, “You call this plant care? My previous owner used to serenade me with Mozart while watering with rainwater collected at dawn.” The guilt is real, people.

    The Saga of the Overwatered Spider Plant

    If Brenda is the stoic, silently judging roommate, then Steve, my spider plant, is the passive-aggressive one. He never outright complains, but he lets his feelings be known in subtle, yet undeniable ways.

    Like, remember that time I went through a phase of “being a good plant parent” and diligently watered everything in sight? Steve was not impressed. He responded by growing roots that burst out of the drainage holes, snaking their way across my bookshelf like some kind of botanical escape attempt.

    “Too much, too soon,” his roots seemed to whisper. “Chill out, Linda.” (Yes, I realize I gave my spider plant a human name and then assigned it an entirely different human name in my head. Don’t judge me, you haven’t met Steve.)

  • Is My Houseplant Silently Judging My Life Choices?

    Is My Houseplant Silently Judging My Life Choices?



    We all have those moments. You know, the ones where you trip over thin air, spill coffee on your only clean shirt, and then accidentally like your ex’s new significant other’s vacation photos from three years ago. We’re only human, right? But lately, I’ve started to suspect that someone (or something) has been silently observing my string of unfortunate events with a mixture of amusement and judgment. And that something, my friends, is Herbert, my seemingly innocent houseplant.

    The Case of the Crumbling Cookie

    It all started with a particularly rough Tuesday morning. I was already running late when I decided to grab a quick breakfast—a decision that, in retrospect, was the catalyst for Herbert’s alleged judgment. As I attempted to multitask, balancing my laptop, phone, and a plate precariously stacked with a bagel and a very large, very crumbly cookie, disaster struck. You guessed it—crumbs everywhere. And not just a few stray crumbs. We’re talking a full-blown cookie massacre on my keyboard, desk, and, unfortunately, Herbert’s pot.

    Herbert—a leaf that seemed to be positioned at the perfect angle to witness my shame. From that moment on, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Herbert was watching my every move, silently critiquing my life choices one crumb at a time.

    The Great Watering Incident of ’23

    If the cookie incident was the spark, then the Great Watering Incident of ’23 was the fuel that ignited my suspicions into full-blown paranoia. See, Herbert is a bit of a drama queen when it comes to his hydration needs. Too much water? He wilts like he’s auditioning for a soap opera. Too little? Cue the dramatic leaf drop that leaves me convinced I’m a plant murderer.

    So, on this particular day, armed with good intentions and a watering can, I approached Herbert with the aim of providing him with the perfect amount of life-giving liquid. But as I poured, I got distracted by—you wouldn’t believe it—a notification on my phone. It was a text from my landlord reminding me that rent was due. And just like that, my focus shifted, and I overwatered Herbert. Again.

    As I sheepishly emptied the excess water from the plant saucer, I swear I heard a heavy sigh. Okay, maybe it was just the wind rustling the leaves. Or maybe, just maybe, it was Herbert expressing his disappointment in my inability to even master the simple task of watering a plant.