Scene: Evening walk in the neighborhood with my friend, Lisa
Lisa: (Spotting marsh plants in a lake we walk by): "I love those plants. What are they called? Pussy willows?"
|The plant we were trying to identify.|
Me: (Matter of factly): "No. Pussy willows are the smaller ones - the little puffs. Those are called cat o' nine tails."
Lisa: (Assuredly): "Um...cat o' nine tails are a type of bondage implement, so I doubt that's it."
[She then suggested we pause to Google the plant and helpfully offered to search "pussy willow" which surprisingly had much tamer search returns than "cat o' nine tails."]
The results showed she was 100% correct due to her vast knowledge of S&M equipment.
|Cat o' nine tails. This should bring some new friends|
to Brutalism who search that term and determine
a blog named "Brutalism" seems on theme
with their interests...
Anyway, I was close - the marsh plant is a cattail.
Best part? I've been referring to them as cat o' nine tails my entire life without ever ONCE questioning why the hell they were called that. And all this time, I've assumed people found me outdoorsy and nature-loving when really they've determined I'm into the kinks and enjoy a good flog.
I apparently suffer from the same disease my mother has, which she refers to as "CE" (meaning "close enough.") Examples of this are when she asked my daughter if she was excited for the "One Way" concert (she was going to see One Direction) and if I had seen that great film by Emerald Fennell called, "She's Got Potential" (Promising Young Woman). I always know exactly what she's talking about, even if she's not technically accurate.