Whore House Madam, or Slum Lord?

That last, rather prurient entry sparked an identity crisis of sorts.

Am I running a whore house with more flavors than a Ben & Jerry's ice cream shop to suit every possible kind of "taste," or am I a "reverse slum lord" in need of issuing eviction notices to certain of the more common, less modish, residents to make room for high priced residents?


Can I really sacrifice the more pedestrian green and hostas like Christmas Eve (it does get scraggly by August--so scraggly it might be construed as an affront to the Buddha before which it lies) or Diamond Tiara, which has come to serve as unifying thread of the shade gardens, for more exotic specimens such as Dwarf (native) Crested Iris or Blue Halcyon Hostas? Dare I begin to excise the Creeping Emerald Phlox or the wonderfully blue-flower spiked ajuga to gain precious real estate in some Donald Trump frenzy of acquisition?


Fortunately, with a bit of ingenuity, I managed to squeeze in all of the new purchases without having to evict, excise, eradicate, or eliminate.

True, the gardens at 410--and yes, I like to think in terms of gardens in the plural, given my front sun garden, and rear full shade and partial shade beds, each home to a distinct assemblage of plants--remain a work in progress. (To quote a docent at the Mt. Cuba Horticultural Center: "gardens are works in progress, much like our lives.") True, there are stylistic disjunctures here, and overcrowded conditions there, and these require attention soon.

But for now, I proudly don my moniker of Whore House Madam, and happily set aside the charge of slum lord.


Or was I supposed to be the husky Burt Reynolds giggolo?