Monthly Archive for January, 2009

1. Chrysanthemums
I am highly allergic to Chrysanthemums, Spider Mums and any and all flowers that have the suffix of “mum” in them. My mother has known this ever since I was old enough to explain that the sneezing, sniffling, and watery eyes got worse when she bought home those flowers from the grocery store with the brightly coloured cellophane skirts that hid the green plastic pots. My immediate need for Dymatap, Sudafed and Claritin never stopped my mother from purchasing these post-nasal drip inducing plants. Once I mentioned this to my allergist and asked if there was anything he could do about my allergy to these plants, “Yeah, get your Mum to stop buying the God damn plants,” he sighed audibly and shook his head in disgust.

2. Post insemination bouquet
I suppose every long-term marriage has had a moment when one’s usually kind, loving, and devoted partner has lost his or her mind and said the very wrong thing. I can think of only one time before this day of infamy when my He-weasel had totally lost his mind and said exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time( the time before was during an attack of PMS when I asked him if I should have liposuction on my hips. I will net tell you what he said as it won’t sound that bad to you but to me it was the equivalent of hearing “you are a fat beast”. The next day I got flowers).

I will not tell you here and now what he said that got me the post insemination bouquet, stay tuned for the book where I will tell that whole sad story. That is the kind of story that needs to be read in a book that puts this moment into a context). For now let me assure you that he said something totally out of character and his timing for his madness was when my feet were in stirrups and I was waiting for the doctor to come in.

I was hopping mad even as the stirrups kept me motionless. I believe that there may have been real and actual smoke coming out of my nose and ears. He-weasel tried to take back his words. He didn’t mean it. He was sorry. It had come out all wrong, or so he said. I was not at all moved by his words, apologies or his ever growing urgency. The doctor entered the room filled with ‘how do you do’s,’ high spirits and his high tech turkey baster full of sperm. He-weasel tried to hold my hand and tell me he loved me as the doctor inseminated me. I was channeling Linda Blair in her most famous role in the Exorcist. I glared at him, my pupils likely red and glowing. I would not let him hold my hand and his declaration of love was met with facial messages of contempt. Had he tried to kiss my cheek I assure you I would have spit pea soup on him, the doctor and the nurse who oversaw my insemination.

I would not talk to him on the way home. Not one word. I was fuming. The Volvo’s windows fogged up with the intensity of my rage. We arrived home and I did something I hadn’t done since the drama days of the first year of marriage, I pulled out the suitcases and started packing. Now, let me remind you I was on a shit-load of infertility meds. My estrogen levels were crazy high and I was on something like 100x’s the normal level of progesterone. These kind of levels will drive someone to cry, rage and declare that no one loves you and everyone hates you and that, yes, eating worms might be the perfect thing to do just because one’s husband forget to get a straw when he went out in a blizzard to get one a chocolate milkshake.

Exhausted from my rage I took a nap, still giving the silent treatment as I slept. When I woke I discovered that He-weasel had gone to the store and bought me all of my favorite foods. He had also stopped at Bank Lane Bistro and picked up my favorite tomato-basil soup and there was also a brownie( a brownie in He-weasel/Belette diplomacy is an important tool to decrease hostility and preempt risk of elevated aggressions that could stop talks altogether). I admired his efforts even as I feigned indifference. I further toured his food-stuffs of forgiveness and then I heard that the door bell ring.

When I opened the door I saw an arrangement with feet, I kid you not. The bouquet was so big I could not see the delivery guy. It was the kind of flower arrangement that they have in the foyer at hotels like the Four Season. You know the kind; they are so large they contain their own eco-system. It took both He-weasel and the delivery guy to get this rose-parade float in a vase up onto our dining room table.

I don’t remember anything after receiving the flowers, I think that means I got over my hormone and He-weasel induced rage for the low cost of a $300 flower arrangement.

3. Daffodils
At some point when I was very young I decided that daffodils were my favorite flower and it became a thing. I got a huge bouquet of daffodils every year on my birthday. But, as I grew older I wanted my favorite flower to have greater complexity, fragrance and sensuality. I would throw hints that maybe I preferred tuberoses or orchids or maybe peonies and when that didn’t work I explained that while daffodils are nice and I will always have a place in my heart for them that they are no longer my favorite flower. My next birthday I got the daffodils. Nothing I can do or say will change my mother’s mind about this.

I feel sure that my mother doesn’t feel that she knows many things about me but she does know one thing about me and that is that I like daffodils. It is my fantasy that every time I tell her that the sunny bright spring flowers are no longer my favorite it is like telling her “you don’t know me” and I think she knows that but I also think she may like knowing one thing about me even if it isn’t true.

4. Pansies
These, in my personal symbolism of flowers are the happy flowers. Maybe because no one ever picks them. I don’t know. But, to me they are the flower of happiness. I am also pretty sure that they sing when no one is looking, that is how happy they are.

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5. Stargazer Lilies
Smelling the super sweet smell of Lilies takes me back to dreams, symbols and associations that I processed while listening to NPR and driving on the 405 freeway. These are the flowers I used to buy at the Santa Monica farmer’s market after an hour with my Jungian analyst. After our session ended at 1:50 I would run to the market in hopes of beating the vendors 2:00 closing time.

It somehow made me feel a sense of accomplishment to multi-task; I was not just going to Santa Monica to see shrink but I also got some flowers. The flowers also marked my time between sessions. Thursdays the lilies began to open a little. Fridays they were yawning with possibility. Saturdays He-weasel would cut off the pollen pods so the flowers wouldn’t get sullied by the saffron coloured powder. Sundays after we came back from brunch we would be overwhelmed by the insistence of the fragrance. Mondays the flowers had the slightest hint of fading. Tuesdays petals started to fall. Wednesdays the cycle began again.