Monday, June 28, 2010
Once again, I’ve been cheated out of the Altadena Golden Poppy Beautification award. I hold no Golden Trowel. And this is after I’ve done everything, everything the committee requires. My garden is awash in fountain grasses and artfully placed hardscape; it’s a haven to insects and other tender woodland creatures; I've been handmaiden to the weeds we call California Natives.
And oh, on Sundays, I don my white eyelet sundress, open my gardens, serve organic lemonade and herbs to passersby, often trilling along with Sarah Brightman, and every bit as loudly.
Golden Poppy people, I’m not bitter, only curious; give it to me straight: Just who the hell do I have to sleep with?
Yes, yes, you say, it’s you, not me. But of course it’s me; what on earth isn’t me?
What put you off? What, because I snuck in a few tropicals? Well pardon my Algerian ivy and Kudzu. Or was it the dry rot? I’m planning on painting over that, you know.
Eventually I’ll get tired of trying to kiss your shovel; maybe after a shot or two I’ll tell you to take your golden trowel and stick it in a shady spot. There are lots of golden gardens around these parts, and there’s no law says I can’t hand out my own awards (so long as I mind my letterhead and keep our senator’s name out of it.)
I won’t do anything behind your back, but let this be fair warning. I’ve been toying with a few ideas, a few contenders, and will post them next. The Golden Trowel may be in your corner (well, of course, you've got the budget for that), but let's see how it stacks up against the cheap hoe.