Botaniscopes

I'd like to write some horoscopes because I have a few tiny semi-coherent thoughts, but jeez, 12?  That's a lot.  So we're developing a new system, botaniscopes, and if I weren't so lazy I'd write a quiz so you could see what flower you are.  That's all the rage, online quizes to see what fruit, punctuation mark, fictional character, or work of great art you are, and whether your feet are egyptian or celtic.  (Mine are celtic.)  But it's too hot to do anything strenuous like type up a quiz.

Those of you from other parts of the world are laughing at us for complaining, but it got up to 90 degrees yesterday and I had to swim three times and still got cross and irritable.  I'm wearing a giant flowy moo moo (is that a word? Did we really name a dress after the sound a cow makes?  Apparently yes.) and even without the heat I know this thing about myself, which is that I have about 2 productive hours a day, maybe three, and I can either do yoga, work, or write.  The rest of the day is waiting around for the next burst of productivity, which happens predictably between 6 and 9 am, and I often spend the first hour of it lying in bed thinking and looking out the window and listening to my productivity clock go tick tock loudly, and wondering / deciding what I should do with the last glimmers of possibility.  I would always prefer to make something, but then I think I should do something to earn some money, like write a dull report, or I should clean up my surroundings so it looks like a sane person lives here.  So, botaniscopes.  I was going to use just what's flowering now, but I don't really want to be confined like that.  (Remember, I'm the person wearing a gigantic moo-moo.)  So, here goes.  Tick tick tick goes the productivity window.

Wow, just as I started to write, I found a dead squished mosquito in the crevase of my keyboard and screen.  Ick.  I'm sorry it had to go down that way, little bug.

Bald-hip rose.  (Rosa gymnocarpa).  You, my friends, are rugged and beautiful and last a long time and pretty much take care of yourself.  You're subtle and steady and no one even notices you until suddenly they do, and they're all, wait, why have I been fussing around with these needy high maintenance roses when I could have this?

Yesterday, I tried to do some yard work and it was about a thousand degrees out, I think the earth has gone off orbit and is really close to the sun, so I didn't last long.  But while I was out there I scared up a very tiny baby rabbit, I think Geoffrey has adopted a crack bunny, and she was awfully cute, about the size of my hand, and she wasn't just brown the way regular rabbits are, she had white and black spots too and she looked so soft, I felt like Lenny.  Through a vote of the people, we have named her Janet Marigold (I know, we did agree to Marigold Janet, but Geoffrey insisted we switch it around.  You can still call her Mari-Jane.)

Ocean spray.  (Holodiscus discolor).  So generous, you.  Abundant and sweet and flowy and just the right amount of fragrant.  What's not to love?

I'll tell you what I don't love right now, is the library, because it smells bad, there's some sewer issue going on and so now I have all these overdue books and I get e-mails every few minutes reminding me, and my amount owed is too high to place a book on hold, etc.  But they say we need to look at the dark side too, and if the library stinks, as in, an actual horrible aroma, well, so be it.  Don't stop reading just because of the sewage smell.

Wild ginger.  (Asarum caudatum).  You aren't showy, but really, you know you're the coolest, smartest flower of all.  People think you're pollinated by flies, but no, self-pollinated, Asarum.  Rock on!  You have a small but devoted audience of people who appreciate you, even if they're sometimes like, "Really, ginger?  Self-pollinated?  You should get out more."  But they love you anyway.

So I have this customer who writes newsy e-mails that don't really relate to the topic at hand, and I'm a big fan, but I don't really know how to respond.  Example:
Me:  Could you please send over a site plan showing your proposed house?
Him:  Our peas came up early this year, so we're havesting already.  My wife is growing some Lonicera for you in our green house.  Oh, and did I tell you that we had a surprise party for Aunt May last week.  It went really well!

Sometimes it makes me tear up just a tiny bit, and then I say something like, "Sounds great!  Could you send over the site plan?"


gigantic meadowrue (Thalictrum something or other).  I have this growing in my garden and its about 12 feet tall, maybe 18 or possibly 63.  Sort of jack-in-the-beanstalk-ish, and you wouldn't even know there's a gorgeous flower way up there because you'd have to be a giant or perhaps a pollinator to enjoy it.  So I look outside and then google images to see the actual flower.  I would need a ladder.  Which I have, but sheesh, who ever heard of climbing a ladder in a moo moo to see a flower?  That's why we have the internet, people.  Al Gore didn't invent the world wide web so we would get our moo moo snagged on a ladder viewing a flower.

Speaking of which, I spent almost a million dollars on a new oven/range this week, and it will be installed soon and then I'll actually begin eating like a modern woman again, not so raw food and microwave-y.  Confession:  I don't really have a hot plate.  I made that up.

I was in the field on friday, in the middle of the sweltering afternoon, and no, I wasn't wearing the moo-moo.  Carharts, people.  And the customer, and older man, wanted to tag along, and after about five minutes he said, "really?  You just crawl around out here in the thickness?"  And he was sweaty and and out of breath and I was sort of worried that he might die but he didn't, so that was good.  Your week will be good too, Thalictrum.

Okay, I have about 45 more productive minutes this day, and I plan to look out the window some more, so that's all for now.  Send your flower, though, and I'll totally incorporate it into this madness.  I will.