I've always wanted a yard like my grandmother's. I didn't inherit her green thumb, though, so I hoped that some serious study could help to overcome my inept gardening skills this spring. I read up on everything that could grow out of the ground, including weeds. There's some pretty impressive plant life out there, and with it some very strange and colorful names. Eventually I decided to leave the botanicals to the experts, and I'd stick with surgery. But the garden of names has stayed with me as I've gone about my day and found new definitions for some of them.

Aster. As in dis-aster, as in my room after one of those marathon cases.

Baby's breath. A bouquet of thanks to the surgical staff that does the C-sections for labor and delivery.

Cocklebur. The surgeon who has a habit of timing how long it takes him to make the circulator cry.

Crabgrass. The circulator that has worked in the same OR suite with the same surgeons for 40 years. (Can you blame her?)

Creeping thyme. The hours you're still stuck working, long after everyone else on staff has gone home.

Euonymus. Sounds like "anonymous." As in people who leave nasty, unsigned notes concerning what you did or didn't do before you finally finished your 3-to-11 shift. (What do you expect from a shrub?)

Four o'clocks. Uh, that's the hour after my shift was supposed to end. Where's my relief?

Forget-me-not. To the folks on all the traveling contracts I've had over the past 4 years.

Foxglove. For the cardiac patients. Nothing like a little digitalis when you need it.

Gladioli. Little Miss I'm-so-happy-to-be-here. (Oh, get a life.)

Impatiens. Those people out in the reception area, watching the clock and waiting for our attention.

Ivy. Besides cold rooms, patients seem to complain about IV starts the most.

Masterwort. That sounds like something that's going to need a laser and a HEPA mask to deal with.

Morning glory. All those irritating people who show up at 0630 in a good mood.

Mums. Of course she'll keep your secret. She won't tell a soul.

Obedient plant. Something I don't always resemble.

Passion flower. What I always feel for OR nursing.

Pansy. The co-worker who's all mouth about a surgeon until it's time to face him.

Prickly pear. Two arrogant surgeon partners working together on the same patient. "Get me this." "Get me that." "Answer my phone." "Check my beeper." Yadda yadda yadda, times 2.

Quackgrass. The doctor you wouldn't even send the prickly pear to.

Quaking aspen. The new grad.

Rose. He's tall, gorgeous and smells wonderful. You'll even overlook a thorny attitude to be able to work with him. I'd take a dozen of him over one of the others.

Snapdragon. The female surgeon who talks to the staff like they're idiots. But could she find lost instruments? Could she connect and turn on all the equipment? She can't even manage to keep all of her hair under her hat.

Stinkweed. A ruptured appendix.

Sweet pea. Finally, a bathroom break.

Tulips. Bring on the collagen.

Venus flytrap. Whether she's a doctor, nurse, supervisor or scrub, she seems to be wide open to suggestions. But look out: One false move and she's clamping down on you like a steel trap.

Weeping willow. Want my advice? Never weep in front of the cocklebur or snapdragon.