Wouldn't you just love to bury yourself in this bed of flowers? Just fling yourself headlong into the glories of spring? Or at the very least, bend down and take a gentle whiff?
No, you wouldn't. These beauties stink. Like a dead animal. Or the well-worn socks of an active teenager. Or, hey, that old guy down by the Shelter, the one who hasn't changed his trousers since '62.
I don't know what the bush is called--and yes, I did chose it, but only by pointing magisterially I'll have that at the nursery. I hadn't a clue what it was, or what it would do. Then, it started to come into bloom last week. And about that time, D. started whining that there was a dead frog in our shrubbery.
I--she of the Smells All/Knows All nose--went to examine. At first I couldn't smell anything. "You can't? You can't?" exclaimed D in one of his snider, I-can't-believe-this-since-you-could-smell-a-hangover-on-me-three-days-later tones. "Bend down."
I bent.
"Can you smell it now?"
"Oh, yes, I smell it now. Dirty socks."
We looked at each other. Dirty socks--in our shrubbery?
"What the f--waitaminnit, hold on. We had to bend down to smell it. It's this bush. Hey, it's the flowers. They stink."
It's Mother Nature in all her glory. This bush is at our front door. Don't you just wish you could come for a visit?
I don't know what they're called, but I do know the stench. They're like God's big joke.
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