We've gotten some much needed rain over the past couple of days, and we're about to have a little heat wave here over the next couple.  Not necessarily the best conditions for us humans (especially ones sleeping in attic rooms without AC), but not too bad for plants. 

The roses are out en masse...


I appreciate roses — their scent (of course), their delicacy and durability (killer combination), and their orderly unfolding — but it's hard to love them, as thorny as they are.  They seem to be meant to be admired at a polite distance more than truly loved. 

And admired they are, the world over.  The national flower of England and the U.S. (at least since 1986), they're also a favorite of Socialists everywhere.  The rose is a symbol of romance (for Venus), chastity (for the Virgin Mary), and martyrdom (for early Christians), among many, many other things. 

There's almost nothing the rose doesn't stand for, in fact.  Different colors, numbers, and combinations of them mean vastly different things.  Red for "enduring love".  Orange for desire.  White for innocence.  Yellow for jealousy. 

But I imagine their scent is what has made them most beloved among flowers.  Because, let's face it: people stink. Lovers stink.  Corpses stink.  Americans and Britons stink. Socialists stink.  Someone sends you a dozen red roses they're basically saying: I love you, but you stink.  But I still love you. Two dozen, and it's: I REALLY love you, but you REALLY stink.  But I still REALLY love you.

That's just my take on it.  Roses are beautiful — don't get me wrong...


...that spiral of silky folds.  And there is something about those thorns that lend them dignity, or at least add an element of BITCH to their beauty.  It must be the thorns that make them truly formidable flowers.  A rose without thorns is like a nice drag queen.  I mean, HELLO! What's the point?  It's not like seedless oranges.  It's not a rose if it's got no thorns. (Yes, OK, there are several varieties of thornless roses, but they were created by and for people with names like Archduchess Elizabeth d'Autriche and Madame Brosse, who I'm sure were very nice, but clearly never loved.)

I am in the throes of a thorny love at the moment, myself.  It's a wild rose kind of love...


...creeping unbidden into my garden and going crazy.  More thorn than rose, I'm afraid.  Please, no jokes about getting pricked. 

It's my Merchant Marine.  He dropped by on his motorbike earlier.  And I had this awful revelation:  that even with just his eyes peeping out from his motorcycle helmet, his sweaty cheeks pressed together and his sunburnt nose framed by the plexiglass visor, you can totally tell he's hot.  In fact, I noticed that sparkle in those mischievous eyes like never before. 

This was after we'd done what we'd done and I'd walked him out.  I was exhausted — it was like an oven in the attic of the orphanage.  I was totally spent.  And still I wanted to just gobble him up right then and there. 

And it was like suddenly finding myself in a rose bramble.  And I'm saying to myself: Ouch! Ouch!  Ouch!  What am I doing in here?  I mean, this is so not a love affair.  This is like a bromance.  He calls me "bud," for chrissake.  Why do I do this to myself?  Why do I not heed Neil Young's timeless advice:

Love is a rose, but ya better not pick it
It only grows when it's on the vine
A handful of thorns and ya know you've missed it
You lose your love when you say the word "mine."

But once you're in the bramble, what do you do?  You try and get out, obviously.  But have you ever tried getting out of a bramble? I mean, when you're not Br'er Rabbit? It's much harder than falling into one.  And you come out looking like you were attacked by a clowder of cats. 

No rose without a thorn, I know.  But this is getting ridiculous.