I'm Maggie Smith, and this is the slowdown.

I have a confession. I want to have a green thumb, but I can't, for the life of me,

keep houseplants alive. Other people's apartments look more like greenhouses or gardens. They're filled with so many plants.

And my writing room is completely wrapped in windows,

just begging to be filled with hanging leaves and vines.

The green would be good for my soul,

especially during the long Midwestern winters. But it's not going to happen. I have a brown thumb. Or, as one of my kids generously said when they were younger,

Mommy, you have a soft thumb.

You're good at taking care of people.

I like that, and I'll take a soft thumb over a brown thumb any day.

I am good at taking care of people, and even my dog is beyond pampered. But the plants in my house are constantly fighting for their lives. Even the succulents are alarmed. I think they know that I once

killed an airplant.

An air plant.

They're supposed to be the lowest maintenance plant you can have,

and I managed to kill one.

My soft thumb was no consolation to that poor, spidery-looking thing.

These days, I have just one little spiny cactus and one ficus holding strong,

and I feel like I'm jinxing us by even mentioning them.

Please send your best wishes their way.

As you might imagine, I'm not an outdoor gardener either,

but I do have plenty of plants growing in my yard.

Most of them volunteers. They pop up as surprises from seeds,

...