And apparently squash do it, too. Who knew? My mother, that’s who. I should backtrack and tell you that my husband planted a vegetable garden this spring. His first. All by himself, which is astonishing since he hates yard work. Me, I’m a verified plant killer, so I told him he was on his own with the planting and the tilling and the weeding, but I would be happy to cook and prepare any of the garden’s bounty. To my shock, plants are growing. A couple of weeks ago, I told my mom that the squash had started blossoming.

“Do you have any bees?” she asked.
“What? No.”
“Then you’ll have to help your squash have sex.”

Okay. These are not words I expect to hear from my mother. However, as is usually the case, she is right. By the way, do not Google “squash sex.” The results are not helpful.

After adjusting my search string, I learn that there are male and female blossoms and that if there are no bees, yes, they need help with pollination. Oh, yeah, they only bloom once. That’s right, they get one shot to make a baby squash, and that one shot takes place between 8:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. So they’re incompetent and picky. Since my husband’s at work then, I am the squash’s only hope for romance. I don’t even like squash.

Outside, I stare at the garden and figure out that there are a lot more females than males, which must be some kind of male squash fantasy. I can see the little squash babies all ready to grow, and know that if I can’t get the males to man up, the unfertilized babies will shrivel and die.

I shall not fail you, my squash sisters.

Early the next morning, I go to the garden with my paintbrush and perform intimate acts with strange squash blossoms. I match make. No kinky brother/sister stuff. And I check all the males—are they strong and handsome? Reliable? Employed? Does their pollen deserve to live on? I am emotionally invested in the lives of the squash.

For three days, I run a squash bordello. On the fourth, I interrupted a bee. I was so startled, I actually apologized to it.

Now, the bees have taken over, and a couple of days after that, the first squash, hand-pollinated by me, were born. They tasted great.

So . . . who read this and Googled “squash sex?”

Yes. Princess Beatrice is wearing a cloud of butterflies on her head. I’ll admit, when I saw this picture, I thought, “Oh, honey, no.” But then . . . but then it became a “hmmm.”

And here is Sarah Jessica Parker with her homage to Dr. Seuss.

There’s actually a name for these whimsically bizarre bits of feathers, tulle and fabric: fascinators. And I find myself fascinated.

Look at these things:

I want one. Easy enough. They’re for sale. Or I could make my own. But it’s not enough to want one. I want some place to wear it, some event where wearing a fascinator is not only appropriate, but encouraged. Realistically, I’m not headed to a royal wedding or Ascot any time soon. I’d freak out the people at Kroger and Ace Hardware. I bet the 99 Cent store folks would be cool, though. Still. I do not have the kind of life that requires a fascinator. But I want one anyway.

So am I alone? Well, maybe about the fascinators, but who else has something in her closet she just had to have but doesn’t have the life for? You know what I’m talking about. ‘Fess up.