Silk flowers

Mom, commenting on the décor of the trailer she bought in Texas for the winter months: “My goll, you should have seen this place when we bought it. It was filled with rag-nasty plastic flowers.”

Me: “Ugh, I hate those. I mean, what’s the point?”

Mom: “Yeah, I threw them out and replaced them with some really nice silk flowers.”

Me: “Uh….”

I love that my mother sees a marked class difference between plastic and silk flowers. To me, they are all the same: fake, non-fragranced doodads I have to dust. Why clutter up your home with bouquets of immortal meh?

I realize you may not be home long enough to keep a plant alive or you have a black thumb or you can't afford to buy cut flowers very often or your cat could die if he chewed on a lily, but here's my question: Why do you need anything at all? If you like the look of flowers, just get a print of some sunflowers or put a daisy magnet on the fridge. Don't clutter up the place with phony ferns and bogus pots of orchids.

Nip these faux-ers in the bud and leave them where they belong: in a retail garden (i.e. Michaels, aisle 7).

(photo: www.plasticbinsblog.com)

Pollen

I know plants need you to grow and shit, but do you have to rub it in our faces (especially my right eye, which is almost swollen shut because of your need to be front and center)? I swear, you’re just like John Mayer or Speidi: stop talking about you for a minute and you have to whip up a new controversy to get carried along in the wind. Get over yourself and let something else shine for once. Have you ever considered that mold spores might like a moment now and again?

I don’t mean to be a major ragweed but enough is enough. I’m tired—seriously, I need a nap—of breathing only through my mouth. It’s time to make hay, not hay fever, while the sun shines, which means I need to wash you and your allergen pals outta my hair, off of my skin, and down the drain. I’m going to drown your greedy sinus-squatting ass in vats of antihistimines and decongestants. Maybe that’ll teach you to keep to your turf and fertilize flora, not my nasal passages…microscopic bitch.

It feels good to finally get that out of my system.

(Photo: flickr.com/photos/neoserenity333/1328125376)

Carnations

My loathing of this wretched bloom probably started in high school, when cheerleaders would sell them as a fundraiser around Valentine’s Day and Homecoming. The more flowers you received from cupids who could do the splits, the more popular you clearly were. And the popular bitches would carry those stinky stalks around from class to class.

Let’s just say, I did not have a bouquet stuck out of my Trapper Keeper.

Now, I hate the crapass carnation for all new reasons. It stinks. You can often buy the dyed blue variety at gas stations. Classy. It fills in for better buds at funeral homes and the race track. As a boutonniere, it becomes a ball of blech.

Carnations are supposed to represent fascination and distinction. They can have the distinction of being the first flower to fascinate at my fist. The time is nigh to mulch these asshole flowers into a pulp. And after putting the petal to the metal of my rototiller, I am happy to report that I now only smell success.

Baby’s breath, you're on notice. If you know what's good for you, you'll steer clear.

(Photo: flowerstopetersburg.com)

My black thumb

Once again, my black thumb has struck down a seemingly healthy plant in the prime of its doomed life. Less than a week ago, I bought a fragrant purple hyacinth to place in the prosperity corner of my desk (I’ve been knee-deep in feng shui this month). Let me repeat, I bought this flower less than seven days ago. Five days, to be exact. Check out the photo to see what it looks like today. You might not be able to tell but it's leaning WAY over and the blooms are turning brown, shriveling up, and it looks like it's on its death (flower)bed. The irony of it being in my "prosperity" corner is not lost on me, as I scramble to make rent.

Why am I surprised? I kill off all my plants in short order, whether it’s a pot of basil in my windowsill, or a row of cheery flowers in a plot outside my home. A rosemary topiary bit the dust over the holidays. It makes no difference how hardy or fragile the plants are, how much sun or shade they require, how much they need to be watered. I am the gardening grim reaper.

But being the optimist I clearly am, I continue to purchase potted plants. I figure they’ll last slightly longer than cut flowers. I figure wrong.

I’m like effing Rappaccini’s Daughter here. Just breathing on the blooms seems to cause them to shrivel up and die. Perhaps this is a clue as to why I’m single. Maybe I’ve killed off my first dates. Hmmm. Maybe it’s not them; maybe it really is me. Rats.