I went to the garden store this evening. I was just going to buzz in quickly and pick up three cute little succulents for RA/TA gifts, but I zipped back to the succulent section and...there were no succulents.
There were Santas instead. Rafts of them, legions of them, piles and piles of Santas. They had tinsel, they had ornaments, they had enough Christmas crap to clog a Christmas sewer. But no succulents.
Surely, I thought to myself, surely a GARDEN STORE has not eliminated all its plants? Surely they must be here somewhere? I kept circling through the aisles until I found them.
They looked terrible.
I've been to our neighborhood garden store more times than I can count. When Pete thought he wanted to be a botanist he was perpetually angling to stop by the garden store and get just one more succulent. I have petted a lot of cute little succulents in this store over the years, you guys. And tonight? There was no cuteness on display.
They were leggy, they were awkward, they were pallid, they looked sickly. I had thought I'd pick up three little haworthias, because I always find them irresistibly adorable with the most pleasing texture, but even the haworthias were so sad and ugly that I didn't feel any desire to run a finger over them.
I texted Pete to say "Bad things are happening at the garden store!" And then! AND THEN--
--worse things happened at the garden store.
An auditory assault came pouring forth from the speakers. The haworthia sadness was compounded, multiplied, EXPONENTIATED by Christmas music sadness-- to wit, Little Drummer Boy sadness.
(I'm feeling like I've done a good job staying out of retail establishments in recent Decembers, so you might not know how much I loathe cheesy Christmas music. Little Drummer Boy in particular makes me want to pa-rum-pum-pum-pummel the person who created the playlist.)
CODE RED AND GREEN, Pete texted me. FINGERS IN THE EARS, he texted me. FLEEING, I texted back.
It's only a mile to our house but I pulled over when I was halfway home, because I had a sudden insight.
PETE PETE PETE, I texted him. MOM MOM MOM, he texted back.
I know what's happening to the succulents, I told him. It's the music! It's killing them. It must be! How could any living thing survive that much Christmas music, let alone a delicate little succulent?
I am trying to persuade him that we should liberate the succulents before they die sad preventable deaths, but he is telling me that he has finals.
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