My best grade school friend Cindy gave me a potted cactus because of my reputation for spaciness when it came to routines such as watering plants.

"You'll be able to keep this one alive," she assured me.

Not so, sadly. It withered and died and I've never attempted household plants again.

Intermittent routines—bill paying, the day the Con Ed guy reads the meter—are not my forte. New routines, such as our Sunday walks, can take months to become integrated into my planning. (Wait, what? We're walking today?)

Therefore, Chris is the plant and animal person in our house. When they go on holiday, he's also the caretaker for our downstairs neighbors' plants, our across-the-hall neighbor's cat, and the basil, mint and morning glories on a friend's terrace.

And everything blooms and thrives because he's so regular about it and never forgets these now-and-then chores like I do. I've had to bring friends' plants back from the brink because I barely got there in time. (Basil, I'm happy to note, pops right back to life with water even when it looks shriveled beyond hope.)

Check out these succulents on Chris' studio windowsill. They are ridiculously healthy. (My friend Carol's plants are similarly gorgeous and, yep, she's good at routines, too.)

They're like children to Chris; he remembers where he bought this one, who gave him that one, and which ones began as cuttings snipped from a larger plant.

And they have names! See those little sticks with paper? It never occurred to me to name my plants! Maybe because I knew they'd die and didn't want to get overly attached? Or did they die because I never give them names?

Chris not only calls his plants by name, he talks to them and dusts their leaves, and, in gratitude for this fine life they lead, they bloom and glow.