Xzibit A

There's this joke that people love making about my dad being, not a botanist, but a CIA agent or something equally as sneaky. And I can't deny, it makes sense on lots of levels:

-we have to drop him off at the gate far away from his office door because we don't have 'security clearance'

-he's been to area 51

-when asked what he REALLY does, he often responds with somethingorother about 'counting spooks'

-he still remembers how to do college calculus/AP stats/etc.

-he keeps flying to washington, d.c. for weeks at a time

Then there are the counter-arguments: 

-He can grow really good tomatoes in Henderson, NV. Which, takes quite a bit of skill, if not the doctorate degree he claims to have acquired (i've never seen any physical documents) 

-He makes convincingly abrupt stops while jeeping to check out some type of rare species of something

-He has this giant plant press and collection that he keeps in the garage and works with/on sometimes

-He has helped produce 'can-i-keep-this-to-show-it-to-other-students' worthy plant collections for 8 children and numberless neighborhood middle-schoolers

I've weighed these facts many times in my life. A CIA agent everyone thinks is a botanist? Or a botanist that everyone thinks is a CIA agent? Either way, it's a pretty cool gig. But, supposing he is a botanist, there is one thing that has never added up to me—why can't I, the daughter of a botanist, keep houseplants alive? Shouldn't I have some sort of ingrained ability to care for my cyclamen? I've always associated my love of all things botanical to my dad's. But shouldn't a tad of that skill of his transfer as well? Huh? Think about it.