I'm just a mean green mother from outer space and I'm bad!

Meet my favorite plant, affectionately known as Audrey II (A2 for short). Umm... if anyone reading this isn't a total theater/musical geek... please rent Little Shop of Horrors. Please?

A2 is hideous. She's taken over my entire bay window. Usually I tuck all of the tendrils back behind the drapes, or else you see this...

Some of those tendrils or branches, or well, let's face it - they look like tentacles, are over 5 feet long. I wanted to make sure I'm not exaggerating - so I measured. The one on the left is 5 foot, 3 inches. Very, very close to my height. There are weird spiky "things" that are up and down the tendrils. A2 is a fugly plant and the more she grows, the more disturbing she looks.

So why keep the monstrosity in the bay window? If I must keep it, why isn't she locked away in a room where no one can see her?

Audrey II was my Dad's. His father, (Poppy), only brought two things with him when he traveled from Equador to the United States in 1920. This plant, and a machete for cutting sugar cane. The plant is probably close to 100 years old. Poppy loved all of his plants, always had beautiful gardens and fruit trees. Whenever I visited him, he'd take me all around the yard explaining how to nurture each one. He was a sweet, sweet man - the same temperament as my Dad. Nonny... well, not so much. It's the men in the family who are sweet. The women are strong and fierce and more than a little prickly. But the men love them for some beauty that not every one can see... much like Audrey II.

She's a night blooming cereus, Reina de la Noche, Queen of the Night. A type of flowering cactus. They're nocturnal blooms that only last a single evening. Supposedly they're beautiful flowers that have a very strong aroma. They're supposed to look like this -

I wouldn't know from personal experience. I've never seen ours bloom. Never. Dad only got her to bloom once, in the early 70's, before he met my mom. There's a picture somewhere of Dad standing next to her at night, with all of the blooms. But we've never been able to reproduce it. So poor Audrey II has been stuck as an ugly plant that everyone complains about. Mom is always after me to trim her back some. My husband "jokes" that he's scare of the plant. I don't really think it's a joke. Me, I love her. I always hope that just water and letting her be will induce flowers. I've read up on what to do, what not to do... and I just leave her alone. She gets a quart of water every week, and that's about it. Every two weeks in the winter to keep her dormant.

She's one of the few things I have left of my Dad's. When Mom lost the house, I got Audrey II, my Dad's favorite kayaking hat that made him look like an Australian farmer, and an antique ice chest that's in my dining room (the hooch hutch!). I have plenty of memories, but not a lot of sentimental keepsakes.

Where's this all going? Well... darling Baron is in Vegas this weekend for Defcon. I'm home alone, just me and the dog. A few days ago I noticed a funny smell in the living room. Not a bad smell, just not the smell of home. Slightly musky. It's been driving me nuts. Today after work I went searching for the smell.

I found this...


The remnants of a single bloom. I missed it. She hasn't bloomed in almost 40 years, and I missed the one night she did. I sobbed. Hysterically. For an hour. I called my mother sobbing, and I couldn't speak, just sobbed like a child on the phone. She thought something had happened to my husband, and then she almost choked laughing when she realized what happened. Monday was Dad's birthday. Next week is the third anniversary of his passing. And his plant finally bloomed.

In typical "Mayor of Crazytown" fashion... she's slightly annoyed with me. This is a direct quote... "Dad always talks to you more than he talks to me". The logical part of me knows that I just let the plant be long enough to bloom. They like to be left alone. It takes 5 years worth of leaf growth before they'll bloom, and they like to be pot bound. Perfect houseplant for someone with a brown thumb. But the little girl in me is heartbroken that it was a gift from Dad that I didn't see in time to appreciate. Sigh.