“Hiya, what’s all this talk about hoyas? Hoya, hoya, hoya!” Maureen’s not a vine gal like I am. She prefers plants that put the work in, particularly ones she deems essential to a healthy life; helichrysum, frankincense, devil’s claw, even black turmeric. And she’s not as woo-wooey as you might think. Before administering any oils to her arthritic thumb, fasciitis, or her husband’s high sodium levels, she checks the NCBI for any evidence of efficacy. Evidence or not, her husband wouldn’t listen to her anyway. He hates eating celery, and “he’d need a whole bucket o’ stalks” to cure his hypertension.Â
She’s a classic Florida doll in her watercolor black and white sleeveless blouse, faded capris, and floral cap covering close-cropped graying hair. She casually compares our melanin levels, I assume envying my skin’s God-given sun protection factor, and recommends lavender and coconut as a natural shield from the peninsula’s deadly rays. Talkative as hell, she shares locations of plant boutiques she believes I’m “just the kinda gal” who would visit, and recommends I spend [my] “husband’s money” with abandon.Â
She mourns over her inability to consume nightshade plants (tomatoes, potatoes, aubergine) as she believes they cause her joints to ache. When I ran into her again, she said, “I was talking to you in my head. I wanted to tell you the Brandon Plant Boutique has tons of… What are they called?” I replied, “Hm, hoyas?” “Yes! Hoyas!” She said I seem like the kinda gal who loves hoyas. How does Mrs. Maureen know me so well?
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