I’ve mentioned before that I have a major addiction to houseplants; and like most addicts, I didn’t realize how bad it was until I started to recover.
(Okay, that’s a lie. I’m not recovering; it’s just that the realtor has staged an intervention and I’m pretending to go along with it. Shhh, don’t tell.)
I was actually feeling proud of myself because I’d gotten rid of my really big plants last year. The nine-foot fig tree and the Norfolk Island pine had gone off to good homes, so the plants we dragged out to the Island last month were only in the four-to-five-foot range.
Our house seemed so empty without them – the place echoed.
But like any other addict, I still had an emergency stash. I’d kept some smaller plants here, reasoning that they’d be a nice decorating touch when we spruced up the house to sell it.
Fast-forward to a couple of days ago when we were discussing home staging with the real estate agent, who assured us that renting new furniture and a truckload of tchotchkes will make a big difference in selling our house.
We haven’t had any staging consultants in yet, and the realtor gave us some examples of changes they might suggest. After a few moments I spoke up cautiously. “What about plants?”
“They’d all have to go.”
And exactly what did she mean by “all”?
I mean, really; I hardly have any plants left in here. There’s only a Christmas cactus and a couple of anthuriums and a jade plant and nine African violets…
A little palm tree and a peperomia and a shamrock…
A sword plant and a Chinese evergreen…
A heartleaf philodendron and a couple of variegated corn plants and a few pothos vines…
Oh, and the big Boston fern, but it’s up high so it doesn’t count, right?
And I guess there are the four new hibiscus shrubs that we started from the trimmings of the bigger ones…
Yep, this is after we’ve moved out “most of the plants”. I’m beginning to understand how much of a problem I have.
I can only imagine what an ugly scene it’ll be when the home stager tries to confiscate my last scrap of greenery: Like an alcoholic who’s down to her final bottle, I’ll be alternately defensive, confrontational, and weepy.
Friends who live on the Island have assured me that I’ll begin to recover out there; that the ability to garden outdoors almost year-round will slowly cure me of my need to live in a jungle of houseplants.
I hope that’s true.
Meanwhile, can anybody hide an inch-plant for me, just for a little while? It’s tiny, I promise…
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