My wife, Melissa, is addicted to plants.
Not like, “casual hobby” addicted. I’m talking full-blown, “I can quit anytime I want” addicted—except she never quits. She just gets sneakier. She is waaaaayyyy past our plant budget. She’s out there trading plant clippings like she’s running a cartel.
I don’t know how I got pulled into this , but somehow we’re business partners in some kind of underground horticulture ring. She’s part of this black market of plant moms who meet up in parking lots in Deland to swap succulents like it’s Breaking Bad for begonias. It’s Fight Club for middle-class women with Pinterest boards.
First rule of Plant Club? You do not overwater.
Second rule? You bring clippings.
I walked into the garage the other day and saw Ziploc bags full of leaves, stems, and roots. It looked like a lost and found scene at a Grateful Dead concert. She is standing there beaming with pride, “I just traded a monstera node for a rare variegated philodendron.”
I’m like, “Okay, you’re in a gang. This is organized crime for women with rewards points at Pottery Barn.
She talks about “propagation” like it’s a religious pilgrimage. We’ve got little jars on every window sill with plant parts floating in water like a botanical ICU.
“That’s a snake plant pup,” she whispers.
No, ma’am. That is a leaf in a shot glass. You’re not a doctor. This isn’t Grey’s Botany.
And I swear, she joined a Facebook group for plant lovers, and it is cutthroat.
She shared one post that said, “Do NOT trade with Karen unless you like root rot and lies.”
It’s like The Sopranos but for houseplants.
Meanwhile, I’m outside trying to grow a tomato, and people look at me like I just installed a septic tank in a koi pond. “Oh, he grows things you can eat? Tacky.”
(I have grown 3 cherry tomatoes to date, just so you know!)
I’m sorry my plants have a purpose. You’ve got 46 plants in your sunroom and not a single one makes guacamole.
I’m a simple man. I like utility plants. Tomatoes. Peppers. Pineapple. Weed. Stuff that ends up in tacos or helps me forget I spent three hundred bucks on ceramic planters-one shaped like a chicken.
And listen—I support her hobby. I really do. I just don’t understand how you can love something so much… and still kill it like you are the world’s deadliest plant assassin.
She’s a plant mom. But she is also a plant serial killer. It’s like the green version of Dateline.
“They found another pothos in the garage. Dried up. Roots cold. She said she ‘forgot.’”
And every time one dies, she says, “I don’t know what happened!”
Well… I do. It was in a pot with no drainage, shoved behind your boots near my welding machine, nowhere near sunlight, and it hasn’t been watered since something accidentally splashed on it during our kids Ice Bucket challenge for MLS. That plant’s last words were probably, “Tell my leaves I love them.”
We’re talking plant genocide. If you’re a ficus and you see my wife coming toward you with a ceramic pot and a smile, run. She’s the Ted Bundy of botany.
And these plant tags that say “full sun”?
That’s a setup.
We live in Florida. Florida full sun is not like “gentle warmth.” It’s UV radiation with a personal vendetta. It’s the surface of Venus in July. Our “outdoor hardy” plants MELT. Like literally melt.
I came outside and found a dead hibiscus that looked like it had seen the face of God. It looks exactly like a stick.
She said, “I don’t get it—it said full sun!”
Yeah, in Oregon. This is Florida. We don’t grow tulips. We grow gators.
And don’t even get me started on the fancy pots. We have more pots than a medieval apothecary. I don’t even know which ones have plants anymore. Some are for future plants.
And then she leaves town and says, “Hey, can you water the plants?”
Mel… I haven’t watered myself. I’ve had one glass of water since Thursday and half a warm Monster energy drink I found behind my desk while trying to beat a writing deadline. And now you want me to manage a full irrigation system like I’m some kind of moisture sommelier? I built a robust irrigation system that hits islands on our property where plants could go, but she is talking about me watering the plants in the garage.
All gajillion of them.
“Hey, Rob- What did you do while we were gone?”
“I watered the plants.”
“Thanks. What else?”
“There was no time for anything else.”
She has a plant care app now. It tells her what each plant needs—light, water, emotional validation, therapy. Which is convenient, because along with being a 20 uyear teacher, she’s a licensed mental health counselor, so she can diagnose the ferns. One of the plants might be in a relationship with her. Honestly, it’s getting more affection than I am. That plant gets whispered too and told it is loved. I got a sticky note that said “Take the trash out.”
She once asked me to return a dead plant to Lowe’s.
I said no. Not because I was embarrassed. But because the woman in the garden center knows me. She gave me a look like, “Sir… were you watering this with bourbon and half a Monster energy drink?”
No thank you. I’m not going to plant jail for neglect. Not today.
So in our room, I now sleep next to this giant monstera. Monstera—which sounds like a dragon from a video game but is actually just a leafy green roommate taking up most of the bed. It has a better pillow than I do. I’m pretty sure it’s on our insurance.
Now as mentioned, some of the plants don’t make it. Okay, a lot don’t. Some of them die slow, poetic deaths. Some just give up immediately, like “Nope. I’ve seen this house before” and throw themselves off of her garden table ( that was once my workbench)
But here’s the truth…
She’s actually really good with plants. Like, surprisingly good. She studies them, talks to them, celebrates when they sprout. She’s building this whole little community of plant people in Deland- trading cuttings, sharing photos, forming friendships over soil types and light cycles.
As a teacher, Melissa is also part of this low-key committee—another cartel, really—called the Sunshine Club. It’s the group responsible for increasing and supporting the mental health and morale of the teachers. Melissa and a close friend at the school, April, have been leading it for years and are responsible for many of the thoughtful behind-the-scenes stuff that keeps a school running with heart: birthday cards, flowers for bereavement, morale boosters, appreciation events, and those “please don’t quit, we need you” kinds of gestures.
A lot of teachers might not even realize it, and Mel would never brag about it—she’s too humble—but here’s the thing: when she gives a plant to a fellow teacher, especially the new ones… it’s usually not something bought with school funds or off a gift card. It’s one she grew herself. It’s time and care that started in our backyard, not some checkout line.
A little living reminder that someone sees you, believes in you, and wants you to stay rooted. And that’s who she is. Her kindness isn’t just thoughtful—it’s intentional.
Grown with love, watered with patience, and delivered with quiet generosity.
And in a world that’s constantly loud and chaotic, it gives her peace. It makes her happy. And if something makes the person you love feel whole and grounded and connected, you cheer for it—even if it sometimes takes over the living room and asks you for filtered water at 11 p.m.
So yes. I joke. I tease. But truth is—I love that she loves it. I’m proud of her leafy empire.
And if you want to help support this beautiful, slightly terrifying plant addiction… please buy multiple copies of my next book.
Help me fund more dirt. And more pots. And probably a backup irrigation system to the several days irrigation system a friend and I put in to keep some plants alive.
Because love grows where you water it…
…and also where you Venmo @RobertUrbanWriter $18.99 for a paperback or just for the heck of it.
And if you’ve got cuttings to trade, pots to sell, or a shady place for a ficus to lay low—let me know. I might know someone who’s interested.
Wink, wink.
And if you are a gardener/plant lover yourself- may you continue to have beautiful healthy, plants.
I am rooting for you!
-Rob Urban