I don’t care what that website says, from now on, my dear dracaena, you’re just another member of the household staff. No more being mollycoddled with bottled spring water. Drink tapwater with the rest of us.
In fact, you should feel guilty for creating so much waste, those bottles going into the recycling bin and then, as it turns out, low oil prices make virgin plastic cheaper than recycled anyway. You’re supposed to be transforming carbon dioxide and light into oxygen. You weren’t put in this earth to create garbage.
Don’t ask any special favors regarding the tapwater from now on. I’m not setting it out in a container for twenty-four hours so the chlorine will settle, as the blogs suggest. This isn’t a distillery. Besides, due to the excellent water quality here–“…some of the best-tasting drinking water in the world,” according to the Mission Springs Water District–there’s little need to chlorinate.
And your tapwater will be dispensed from the usual gooseneck vessel. Your loss of bottled spring water will not be compensated by my inclining a crystal pitcher over your root mass.
If you want to chirp about it, remember when you were rootbound. You looked like Madeleine Albright, except I won’t let you color your hair.
Absolument, stasis. I bought you a nice large pot, fourteen inches in diameter, much roomier, like adding a second bedroom. And that new bag of nourishing soil wasn’t exactly the cheapest on offer, it was mid-grade. If you want, I could dig through household receipts just to prove I didn’t get out of the garden department for under $60 on the repotting project.
This isn’t even to mention the stinky fish emulsion fertilizer that came along later. Nor the cork spacer between the pot and carpet.
The investment in you equals bringing home a puppy.
Think how you make the outside plants and shrubs feel. They see you preening right there by the sliding glass door to the patio, noting how you’re attended, and say, “Hey, all we get is a hose splash.”
Know what they’ve been collecting? Grey Poupon empties thrown from passing Rolls-Royces. They’re drilling a hole in the bottom of each and stringing them together, a garland for you.
You don’t like it, I’m saying right now, potted palms are on sale, and plenty are looking for fourteen inches to call their own.