Dear Plumeria, I ripped you out of the ground because you wouldn't bloom and looked terrible, then left you to shrivel in the heat and rot in the mud. Then your shriveled branches were in my way, so I stuck you in a pot of dried up worn-out potting mix until I could get to the trash to dump you. Water? No! Yet you proceed to sprout a mass of healthy foliage that you were never able to produce in a prime spot in the ground. How dare you!
Then you bloomed.
Dear Plumeria, despite your poor attitude, today you are the gold at the end of my rainbow.
Speaking of poor attitudes, Boris prefers his tennis ball to Plumeria flowers.
He spent the day snarfing tomatoes off the kitchen counter and chowing them down. Easier to chew than Tennis Ball.