Well, It's Blooming Again on Amalfi Drive, But It's Not What Papi Butch Is Telling You. It's a Clemantis.

My mother loves purple, and my father loves gardening (well, loved gardening), so when I went through my environmental studies masters at the University of Louisville through the Kentucky Institute for Education and Sustainable Development, I learned a lot about plants, perennials, butterfly and hummingbird blooms, and landscaping. Knowing that Cherry Heights has these telephone/electric poles between some of the houses, I told my father I was going to gift them a clematis.

"A clitoris," he asked. "No, a clematis." It was too late. The words crossed in the synopsis of his brain, so it always became Sue's Clitoris that Bryan brought her from Kentucky. My father is a social creature and likes to brag about his lawn, gardens, children and family. Many a person walking down his street heard great things about the Crandall clitoris throughout the years.

I am an imp, and of course I kept the plant as he called it. Why wouldn't I? It's hilarious, and the inner David Sedaris has loved every second.

My older sister sent me a photo of one bloom last week and then this shot over the weekend. "Look," she texted. "Mom and Dad's chlamydia is in full bloom." "It's a clitoris, Cynde," I corrected her. "Actually, it's a clematis, and I can't believe it still flowers."

I shouldn't post this, because it reveals more about me than it does about them (the fact that I'm forever 15, as the twins have noted). It simply cracks me up that generations of walkers, runners, and neighbors have seen both the Crandall's clitoris and chlamydia, and I've always wondered if they've gone home to say, "That Butch is a friendly fellow, but I'm not sure that plant of his is called what he called it."

I say, "Oh. He got it right. I've loved how right he's gotten it."

It sure is pretty, as our the stories we tell ourselves to make one's day.