The Ball Plant

Remember this plant?

I asked awhile back if it was a weed.

The general consensus was that it WAS a weed.

I stink at gardening so I wasn’t sure. I wouldn’t even have a garden if it weren’t for base housing insisting that everyone have one.

They really ought to make it optional. “Garden with every house…except to the people who kill plants.”

That’s me.

I kill plants.

Not on purpose, mind you.

It’s just, if it can’t shout at me that it’s hungry like my children do, I forget about it.

It’s why my Mom bought me a singing flower pot. When the plant needs water, it sings. Granted, it startled me the first time it went off. I thought a man had broken into the home and started singing a song. (I know. Weird. But I thought it was like The Singing Burglar or something.)

Anyway, I decided I needed to get rid of the weed. I didn’t want to be written up for a messy garden.

So I marched outside, prepared to tug the thing from the ground.

It didn’t work.

I pulled and nothing happened.

Look, I know I’m weak but surely I could pull up a WEED.

Only I couldn’t.

I had both my palms wrapped around the weed and it refused to budge. I swore a couple of times. My neighbors probably deem me as inappropriate.

At one point I peeked down at the root, wondering if it would ever come out and I saw balls.

Well.

Not REAL balls.

But close enough.

“Stupid ball plant,” I muttered and stomped in the house.

I proceeded to forget about the plant until Tom came home.

He managed to pull out the dreaded ball plants.
They will forever be known as ball plants to me now.

If someone asks me about it in their garden I’ll be like, “Oh, you have a ball plant. Awful, aren’t they?”