How I Became Born Again Without Going To Prison

Call me crazy but I don’t think [insert deity of your choice] resides only within the walls of our penal system. Yeah, yeah, I know.  He/She/It seems to be found most frequently there but I’m here to tell you, I think I’ve got a Higher Power of some sort lurking around my crib.

Case in point….

I am an admitted serial plant killer. Unlike Dexter, however, I’ve been strictly homicidal and have no redeeming qualities or justifications for my killing.  If I had only killed, say, poison oak then I would be doing the community a service.  Please understand that my killings are not actually deliberate but rather….spontaneous as if my very presence causes plants to wither and die. I tried desperately for years to turn my black thumb green just like Crystal Gayle turned her brown eyes blue but it wasn’t in the cards for me.  Plantacide was my destiny, and I began to accept it.

A few lovely and unsuspecting friends gave me orchids as gifts over the last year. I smiled graciously, thanked them profusely and cooed over the delicate petals and fascinating root system of these glorious creations.  I promised to take good care of them.  I placed them in my kitchen window. And then more orchid gifts arrived. And then an African violet.  For the love of James Woods, what is going on here?  Doesn’t anyone know I’m the Ted Bundy of greenery?

But then…..[cue the dancing garden gnomes]….a miracle!   Halle-fucking-lujah, they began to thrive. All of them! And they bloomed multiples times!.  Again and again this miracle of regrowth played out in the window of my kitchen. I began speaking to them. I bought them orchid food. I lit incense and chanted. I was washed in the blood of the orchids. I was born again by their very life force.  I…began to worship them.  Just like Chris Cooper in Adaptation [without the drugs and weird sex shit].

The real proof of my transformation, however, came in the form of the miracle-infused potting soil that came with my lemon tree.  For some  reason, the squirrels that hang out in my oak tree and torment my dogs were suddenly going bat-shit crazy for the lemon tree dirt. Every day they’d dig like maniacs on crack flinging dirt everywhere. Frantic, searching, digging, clawing, playing out some sort of squirrel version of Trainspotting right on my patio!

And then…out of the dirt, sprouts shot up. Fast! They looked like weeds. I was tempted to yank them out and stuff them in my yard waste bin. But I resisted. No, Jules. Do not kill them. Resist…resist…..resist…..

I did. And I was born again.

As if to symbolize my transformation from killer to nurturer in the most profound and glorious way, sunflowers bloomed right there in my lemon tree pot.  They are over six feet tall now. I had to prop them up with a broom handle [no worries, I never used that broom anyway]. They are so yellow-y and full of radiant happiness, I think I could use them to run my dishwasher if I could figure out a way to get all that bright sunny energy into the house.

So, you see, it was the sunflower seeds in the potting soil that drove the squirrels whack-o.

They probably ate most of those seeds before they had a chance to grow. Little fuckers!  Whyyyy, I oughta….no, Jules, no…..resist…..resist…stay on the path of righteousness.