Beatrice Balm

BEATRICE BALM: Yoo-hoo! Over heeere! That’s quite enough with the daylilies now, dear. What does little old Bea Balm need to do to get some camera love in this sorry garden?

DIRTY DAISY: I hear you, honey. I’ve been blooming my daisy head off for months, and that sorry-ass gardener hasn’t mentioned me once.

BEATRICE BALM: My goodness. Lately, it’s been all about those daylily trollops, with their blushing throats and stamens dripping pollen. It’s quite risque, if you ask me.

DIRTY DAISY: Hmmph. Those girls don’t even look natural, honey.

BEATRICE BALM: Well, dear, I’m quite certain that little pink hussy a couple of posts ago had some Photoshop nip and tuck, even though she swore it was all her.

Dirty Daisy

DIRTY DAISY: Talk about pimping it for Hallmark, honey. What a sellout.

BEATRICE BALM: Yes, dear, that girl was quite uppity. There was no love lost on my part when she faded into that good night.

DIRTY DAISY: Well, my photo days are over, honey. That’s for sure. That sorry-ass gardener got sloppy with the hose, and now my petals are all water-stained and dirty.

BEATRICE BALM: Oh, dear. Well, I’m quite certain it’s the dirt and not that she’s embarrassed to photograph you because you’re so … well … common.

DIRTY DAISY: Common? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, honey.

BEATRICE BALM: I’ll have you know, dear, that I’m in this garden because bee balm reminds her of those nice Merten people.

DIRTY DAISY: Well, honey, I’m in this garden because daisies remind her of her Grandma Dora. So there.

Ugly Rudbeckia

UGLY RUDBECKIA: At least you two have petals. She never takes photos of me.

DIRTY DAISY: Yeah, honey. You’re just a novelty that seemed like a good idea at the time.

UGLY RUDBECKIA: Isn’t it ironic, though, that I lived when all of the “pretty” coneflowers died last year?

Yancey Yarrow

YANCEY YARROW: Ladies! Ladies! Knock off the yapping. You’re lucky you’re not a yarrow. That sorry-ass gardener just divided me—IN JULY!

DIRTY DAISY: Only because she loves you, honey.

YANCEY YARROW: That’s some tough love, lady. But I’m plenty man enough to take it, yessiree. Those other yahoos all shriveled up and died in this dry sunny spot.

Helen Helenium

HELEN HELENIUM: Tough love? I’ll tell you about tough love, buddy. Try making a go of it over here in the dappled shade when you’re a sunflower. It was all I could do to finally bloom.

YANCEY YARROW: You’re in luck, lady. See that orange tape around your ankles? Means you’re next for the transplant spade.

HELEN HELENIUM: Oh, joy! I’ll bet that sorry-ass gardener makes me stand around in a bucket of water for two weeks while she decides where to plant me, just like that poor Summerwine Ninebark.

YANCEY YARROW: Hell, lady, old Summerwine’s been in that bucket since at least May. Last I heard, he was on life support.

HELEN HELENIUM: Oh, no. And that sexy Electric Ray iris is in the other bucket. Oh, I hope I don’t get the water-filled trash bag. That’s just sooo demeaning.

Joe P. Weed, Esquire

JOE P. WEED, ESQUIRE: Well, I certainly hope I get the transplant spade. What was she thinking when she heeled in Mr. Joe P. Weed, Esquire under a tree? Honestly.

GAIL GAILLARDIA: She has a short attention span, that’s for sure. She used to stop by every morning and tell me, “Oh, Gail, you’re so pretty,” and photograph me in the golden light. Then she started blogging about those lowly vegetables, of all things.

JOE P. WEED, ESQUIRE: Yep. Now that summer’s getting on, I suppose it’ll be all about those gaudy mophead hydrangeas.

Gail Gaillardia

GAIL GAILLARDIA: Nope. Not this year. Annabelle told me that she and the Paniculata family were the only ones to bloom due to the frigid winter.

JOE P. WEED, ESQUIRE: Brrr. It was a chilly one, all right. But I’ll bet they didn’t bloom because that sorry-ass gardener O-V-E-R-P-R-U-N-E-D them.

GAIL GAILLARDIA: Lordy, she does love her Felcos.

JOE P. WEED, ESQUIRE: Just wait until she starts with the deadheading.

GAIL GAILLARDIA: I’m glad for Annabelle, though. She’s a lovely girl.

Old Yeller Loosestrife

OLD YELLER LOOSESTRIFE: Oh, give me a break. It’s all “Annabelle this …” and “Annabelle that …” All hail, Queen Annabelle. I get so sick of that b*tch. I heard she’s even that sorry-ass gardener’s favorite plant in her Blotanical profile.

GAIL GAILLARDIA: Now that’s just a rumor. She loves all of us … at least in passing.

OLD YELLER LOOSESTRIFE: You just wait. I’ll bet that old bitty Annabelle even gets her own post.

JOE P. WEED, ESQUIRE: Hey there, Old Yeller. I didn’t recognize you. Weren’t you variegated last year?

OLD YELLER LOOSESTRIFE: What can I say, man? Survival of the fittest.

BEATRICE BALM: Quiet! Quiet, everyone! Stand tall, now! Here she comes with the camera! Yoo-hoo! Over heeere!