Just Relaxed Blog

Tag: relatable essays

  • 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.)

  • The Surprisingly Deep Thoughts I Have While Doing Laundry

    The Surprisingly Deep Thoughts I Have While Doing Laundry




    The Surprisingly Deep Thoughts I Have While Doing Laundry


    There’s something about the rhythmic hum of the washing machine and the hypnotic tumble of the dryer that seems to unlock a hidden compartment in my brain. Suddenly, I’m not just someone transferring socks from the hamper to the drawer – I’m a philosopher, a comedian, an existential detective, all rolled into one.

    From Lost Socks to the Meaning of Life

    It all started innocently enough. I was folding laundry, lamenting the mysterious case of the missing socks (seriously, where do they go?), when it hit me: life is kind of like a dryer. We get tossed and turned, clinging to whatever we can, hoping we don’t get too staticky. And sometimes, despite our best efforts, we still end up lost, forgotten, or worse – paired with a completely mismatched sock.

    laundry into a rainbow spectrum before washing, does that make me an artist? What does it say about me that I find the gentle scent of fabric softener oddly comforting? These are the questions that keep me up at night (or at least, keep me entertained while I’m folding).

    The Great Laundry Basket Time Warp

    Another thing about laundry: it’s a fantastic way to track the passage of time. Remember that adorable tiny onesie with the duckies on it? The one you swore you’d keep forever? Yeah, well, now it’s stretched and stained, and your “baby” is asking for their own laundry basket (the horror!).

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

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

    Let’s be honest, we’ve all been there. You know, that moment when you’re surrounded by laundry piles that resemble Mount Everest, your diet consists primarily of instant ramen, and you haven’t watered your plants in… well, you can’t quite remember. It’s in these moments of utter chaos that I swear my seemingly innocent houseplant, Herbert, stares at me with a mixture of pity and disappointment.

    Herbert and the Crumbling Takeout Container

    It all started innocently enough. I brought Herbert home from the plant store, a vibrant little peace lily promising to add a touch of serenity to my apartment. I imagined us becoming the envy of plantfluencers everywhere. We were going to be that good.

    photo of a healthy peace lily in a terracotta pot | Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash

    However, life, as it often does, got in the way. Deadlines loomed, social engagements piled up, and Herbert’s once-perky leaves began to droop lower than my enthusiasm for doing laundry. One particularly rough evening, as I shamelessly scavenged the fridge for leftovers (spoiler alert: there were none), I caught Herbert’s eye. Or at least, I imagined I did. There he sat, stoic and green, silently judging me from atop the fridge as I demolished a week-old takeout container with the finesse of a starving raccoon. It was then I knew. Herbert had seen too much.

    The Curious Case of the Neglected Watering Can

    Time marched on, and while my life choices didn’t necessarily improve, my ability to ignore Herbert’s judgment did. That is, until the Great Watering Can Debacle of 2023. I’d optimistically filled the watering can days prior, intending to quench Herbert’s thirst. But, alas, that was before the three-day Netflix binge marathon commenced. As I sat there, bleary-eyed and questioning my life decisions (again), my gaze fell upon the neglected watering can. It was dusty, bone dry, and positioned just so that a particularly judgmental sunbeam could illuminate its emptiness.

  • 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 Day My Fiddle Leaf Fig Raised an Eyebrow

    We all have them, right? Those moments where you catch your pet giving you the side-eye, silently questioning your life choices. Well, last week, I swear my fiddle leaf fig, Ferdinand, did the same. It was one of those mornings – you know the kind – mismatched socks, coffee breath, frantically searching for my keys. As I pivoted in a whirlwind of chaos, I caught Ferdinand’s shadow in my peripheral vision. And let me tell you, that shadow was definitely judging my morning scramble.

    Ever since that moment, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that Ferdinand is silently critiquing my every move. Don’t believe me? Let me present the evidence.

    Ferdinand has a way of making me feel extra guilty about my forgetfulness. I swear, the moment I remember his need for hydration, his leaves droop just a tad lower, as if to say, “Oh, you finally noticed me? I was starting to think I’d turn into a desert plant over here!”

    And the worst part? Once I do remember to water him, I can practically hear the internal monologue: “About time. Honestly, the nerve of some people, letting a perfectly good plant get so parched.” Okay, maybe I’m projecting a bit, but the judgment is palpable!

    Exhibit B: The Curious Case of the Dropped Croissant Crumb

    I’ll admit, I have a tendency to be a bit messy. Crumbs on the counter, clothes on the floor – you know, the usual signs of a life lived to the fullest (or at least that’s what I tell myself). But Ferdinand seems to have a sixth sense for my messy habits. One time, I dropped a stray croissant crumb near his pot (okay, maybe it was more than one crumb, but who’s counting?).

    Later that day, I swear I caught him leaning ever so slightly towards the fallen crumbs, leaves rustling as if sighing in exasperation. It was as if he was saying, “Really? Again? Must you turn my humble abode into a breadcrumb wasteland?” The judgment was real, my friends. Real and slightly terrifying.

  • 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

    We’ve all been there. You’re sprawled on the couch in your oldest sweatpants, haven’t showered in a day (or two…), and you catch a glimpse of your perfectly poised houseplant. Its leaves are gleaming, its posture impeccable. And in that moment, you just know it’s silently judging your life choices.

    The Time My Fiddle Leaf Fig Threw Shade

    My suspicions began with Fiona, my majestic fiddle leaf fig. I’d showered her with love (and a carefully calibrated amount of filtered water), yet she remained stubbornly aloof. Then, one particularly chaotic morning, as I was frantically searching for my keys, I swore I saw it—a single leaf, ever so slightly, tilted in judgment.

    peace. But whenever I commit a plant-care faux pas—like forgetting to water him for a week (or two…)—he clams up completely.

    No new growth. No subtle lean towards the light. Just pure, unadulterated sulking. It’s enough to make you question your entire existence.

    My Peace Lily: Encouragement or Condescension?

    It’s not always judgment, though. Sometimes, it feels more like encouragement—albeit, a slightly condescending kind. Take my peace lily, Penelope, for example. She’s a dramatic soul, prone to wilting dramatically if I’m even a day late with her watering schedule.

  • The Unspoken Rules of Grocery Store Etiquette (And Why I Break Them All)

    The Unspoken Rules of Grocery Store Etiquette (And Why I Break Them All)




    The Unspoken Rules of Grocery Store Etiquette (And Why I Break Them All)


    My Cart, My Chaos

    The other day, I was at the grocery store, balancing a pineapple, a bag of onions, and a gallon of milk precariously on top of a mountain of miscellaneous items in my cart. A fellow shopper gave me the side-eye. I knew that look. It was the “you’re doing it wrong” look, the “your chaotic cart offends my delicate grocery shopping sensibilities” look.

    Listen, I get it. There are certain unspoken rules of grocery store etiquette. Rules like “thou shalt not block the aisle with thy cart” and “thou shalt not use the express lane with 20 items.” But sometimes, my friends, sometimes a rebel has to take a stand. Sometimes, a maverick must forge her own path, even if that path is littered with stray grapes and a dented can of beans.

    The Express Lane Showdown: My Grocery Store Sins

    One of the most sacred grocery store rules is the sanctity of the express lane. 12 items or less, they say. 15 max, if you’re feeling bold. Me? I laugh in the face of danger (and item limits). My motto? “12 items or less” is a suggestion, not a law.

    I once went head-to-head with a particularly disgruntled woman over my overflowing basket in the express lane. She muttered about rules and glared daggers at my off-brand cereal choices. Did I back down? Did I cower in the face of her judgment? No, dear reader, I did not. I channeled my inner grocery store warrior and met her gaze with a smile. “Live a little,” I whispered, as I unloaded my 23 glorious items onto the conveyor belt.

    Photo of a hand reaching for a tray of free samples at a grocery store
  • The Unspoken Rules of Grocery Store Etiquette (And Why I Break Every Single One)

    The Unspoken Rules of Grocery Store Etiquette (And Why I Break Every Single One)



    My Cart, My Chaos: Embracing Grocery Shopping Anarchy

    Okay, picture this: It’s 7 p.m. on a Tuesday, the witching hour between work and dinner. I’m at the grocery store, famished, and my shopping list is a sad collection of scribbles on the back of a receipt. I’m pretty sure “bananas?” is on there somewhere.

    We’ve all been there, right? But here’s where my story veers off the well-paved path of grocery store decorum. You see, I’m that person. The one whose cart is a chaotic jumble of produce, toiletries, and a rogue bag of gummy bears (don’t judge). I’m a walking, talking violation of every unspoken grocery store rule, and frankly, I’m not sure I care.

    grocery shopping: going the wrong way down a one-way aisle. Oh, the shame! The glares! The passive-aggressive throat-clearing!

    Listen, I get it. Efficiency is important. But sometimes, you just need that jar of olives from the top shelf, and the thought of navigating an entire loop of the store feels like climbing Mount Everest with a shopping cart. So, I break the rules. I smile apologetically, I execute a graceful (or maybe not-so-graceful) three-point turn, and I grab my olives. Because life’s too short for aisle-induced anxiety, am I right?

    The Siren Song of Free Samples: My Grocery Store Weakness

    Ah, samples. Those tiny, tempting morsels of culinary delight strategically placed to lure us in like moths to a flame. We all know the rules: one per person, maybe two if you’re feeling bold. But me? I have the self-control of a toddler in a candy store.

    Mini quiches? Yes, please! Tiny cups of mango salsa? Don’t mind if I do! I’m pretty sure I’ve single-handedly kept the sample lady employed on more than one occasion. Is it wrong? Probably. Do I regret it? Not even a little bit. (Okay, maybe a little bit when my stomach starts making questionable noises.)

  • Is My Houseplant Judging My Life Choices? (Spoiler Alert: Probably)

    Is My Houseplant Judging My Life Choices? (Spoiler Alert: Probably)



    That Time My Plant Gave Me the Side-Eye

    I swear, it happened like this. I was sprawled on the couch, buried under a mountain of laundry (both clean and… otherwise), stress-eating leftover takeout, when I happened to glance at Phil. Yes, Phil, my majestic peace lily. He’s usually quite the agreeable housemate—low maintenance, quiet, and a master at photosynthesis. But this time, something was different. As I shamelessly shoved another forkful of noodles into my face, I caught his leaves… drooping? Was he… judging me?

    Phil has become increasingly aware of my life choices, and let’s just say, he’s not impressed.

    Signs Your Houseplant is Judging You: Exhibit A – The Neglected Watering Can

    I consider myself a plant enthusiast, really, I do! I mean, I own a watering can (singular, yes). But sometimes, life gets in the way. You know, things like binge-watching an entire season of a show in one sitting or perfecting my online shopping skills. So, when I finally remember Phil’s need for hydration, he’s usually drier than my sense of humor after a week of bad puns.

    As I drag myself over to the sink, I swear I can hear a heavy sigh. Then comes the slow, dramatic leaf wilt. “Look, I’m sorry!” I find myself apologizing, as if a plant can understand the complexities of my procrastination. “I promise to download a plant care app… eventually.” Phil, in all his leafy wisdom, remains unconvinced.

    Signs Your Houseplant is Judging You: Exhibit B – The Great Repotting Debacle

    Let’s talk about repotting. It’s a necessary evil, like going to the dentist or deciphering IKEA instructions. Phil had been sending out some pretty strong hints that he’d outgrown his humble abode. Namely, his roots were staging a hostile takeover through the drainage holes. So, one Saturday afternoon, I decided to tackle the task.

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

    Why I’m Convinced My Houseplant is Secretly Judging Me




    Does My Houseplant Judge Me? (Hilarious Signs It Might)


    From Green Thumb to Green-Eyed Monster?

    The other day, I caught myself apologizing to my peace lily, Ferdinand. Not for forgetting to water him (though, guilty as charged), but for the sheer state of my apartment. You know, the kind of mess that makes you question your life choices: laundry mountain looming large, dishes piled high like a modern art installation, and enough takeout containers to build a miniature city. As I sheepishly mumbled, “Sorry, Ferdy, I’ll tidy up soon,” I swear I saw a judgmental quiver in one of his leaves. Okay, maybe not, but that’s when it hit me: Ferdinand is totally judging me.

    Now, I know what you’re thinking: “You’ve officially gone off the deep end, haven’t you?” Hear me out! It’s not just the side-eye (or, leaf-eye?) I get from Ferdinand. There’s a whole list of “evidence” that points to his silent disapproval.

    Exhibit A: The Dramatic Wilt

    Ferdinand is a master of passive-aggression. Forget a day of watering? He doesn’t just droop slightly, he throws a full-on dramatic fainting spell. Leaves wilting, stems drooping, the whole nine yards. He’s basically the Meryl Streep of the plant world, putting on an Oscar-worthy performance of “neglected houseplant.” And you know what? It works! Every time, I rush to his rescue, filled with guilt and promises of better plant parenting.

    like he’s saying, “Oh, you’re back from your little life outside? I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

    Exhibit B: The Suspicious Growth Spurts

    Here’s the thing about Ferdinand: he only seems to thrive when my life is a hot mess. Seriously! Remember that time I had a huge deadline at work and lived off instant noodles for a week? Ferdinand sprouted a new leaf. That period when I went through a brutal breakup and subsisted solely on ice cream and rom-coms? Two words: growth spurt.

    It’s like he feeds off my misery, thriving on my chaotic energy. Which, let’s be honest, is a little unnerving. Is he judging my coping mechanisms? Is he secretly judging my taste in movies? I can’t help but feel like he’s judging me.

    Exhibit C: Does My Plant Have a Sixth Sense?

    Okay, this one might be a stretch, even for my paranoid plant-parent mind. But I swear, Ferdinand knows things. Like, he’ll be perfectly content one minute, then the second I even think about repotting him (which, admittedly, hasn’t happened in a while), BAM! Droopy leaves. Dramatic sigh. You get the picture.

    Is he psychic? Telepathic? Does he have a direct line to my subconscious, picking up on my every procrastinated chore and unfulfilled promise of becoming a “plant person”? I wouldn’t put it past him.