I have a most glorious rose bush in the backyard. When it’s in the mood, it blooms and blooms, the blossoms are white from a distance and pale pink up close and it has a lovely delicate scent. Here’s some of the flowers from a couple of summers ago.
It is also vigorous and grows like it was clawing its way out of a rain forest jungle. That means I need to vigilant about pruning it, but last year, R Man was so sick I ignored it, so by this winter it had gotten to be a monster about as big around as a Volkswagen and nine feet tall. Not kidding, not kidding at all.
So I squared off with it this afternoon, determined to cut it down by about half.
The rose saw me coming and was all “Girl, you think you so badass with them sissy little clippers. Do your worst.”
And I as all “Are you talking to me? You talking to me? I know you are not talking to me.”
And the rose was all “Bring it bitch.”
And I was all “Consider it brought. Bitch.”
Insolent shrubs. There are some things one simply cannot condone. Actually it wasn’t so bad, I whacked it back and only wound up with a bunch of scratches and a busted lip, which is inevitable when dealing with roses. They gots thorns and do not fight fair. I assume it will be worth it come May when there will be roses aplenty.
Random houseboy booty, completely unrelated to gardening.