Allergic to asking for help

I really hate asking for help, although you probably couldn’t tell it from this blog.

Or maybe you could tell it, because I’m forever running into trouble with my plants and only then, after I have a bunch o’commenters tell me what’s up, do I do the right thing. So why, then, do I have the conversation with myself about how I should most certainly ask my blog readers a plant question, particularly if I’m too lazy to look it up myself, and then decide to just forge on, helpless and, um, pretty darn inept?

I realize that if any of you could answer this question, you would probably also save me a lot of money in therapy bills. So there’s that.

Regardless, you have been heard on the aloe plant. No more water! In fact, no more soil, at least for the time being. On Tuesday night, in response to the immediate outpouring of comments on behalf of the beleaguered aloe plant, I removed it from the soil, discovered it had lost whatever roots it had left after I dumped it out in my frigid car, and then removed the mushy tentacles. (I know many of you call them leaves, but I’m still standing by my tentacle thing. I cannot help it, people. I cannot help it.)

When I announced the imminent death of my aloe, Heather recommended the whole 50 percent bleach solution, but I have not yet tried that. But at least I got the thing out of the moldy potting soil it was resting in. (Or, as grammarians would say, in which it was resting.)

And I will go pick up some cactus mix, per Trey’s suggestion, tomorrow night and repot the thing in something resembling a friendly medium. Because that’s how I roll. I am all about providing the friendly medium.

I am coming to grips with the fact that I may have killed the thing, but those of you who have posted stories of hope about aloe plants you have tried—and failed—to kill through the years are wonderful, charitable, kind people. Because you are helping me avoid writing off the plant entirely.