I'm not the kind of person who names her plants. OK, I'm exactly the kind of person who names her plants. But, surprisingly, I usually don't.
My mother sent a basket with several different plants to me when I moved to Chicago many years ago. There was almost no natural light in that apartment, but three of the plants in the basket survived and I still have them. One, a prayer plant, I named Hector. There was no good reason for it -- one day, I just looked at it and decided that this was its name.
A few months ago, I decided that I needed specific new plants (rather than just going to a nursery or Lowe's and picking up something random) and ordered a cast iron plant online. Almost immediately, I knew that it's name was Harvey.
Lately, I decided that the giant motherwort that I have growing out front needed a name, but nothing was speaking to me.
This morning I named it Hazel.
Which is all to say that, apparently, I only give my plants names that begin with H.
art bad things beverages birthdays blog book-o-rama books California cars crafts cwe doctor who dreams dvd shelf rewatch election family fashion food friends frustration fun gnome good things hair health holiday home Jonathan Coulton lolcat makeup mejeans misc. mood movie masochist movies moving music nature netflix news people personal photos politics quest shoes sports strike stuff technology television things I know travel trivia twitter twop video weather work zoidberg