Once again, no one asked us to be on this year’s garden tour. That makes 15 years straight. Not only were we not on the tour, the street directions to the selected homes were carefully written so no one would have to pass our house. Just because our lawn looks like a post-hurricane clean-up site doesn’t mean we don’t like flowers. Just because I miss huge swatches of borders with the weed whacker, should we be treated like second-class citizens? It didn’t help when a car pulled into our driveway last week and a guy got out, pointed to our front lawn and asked Sue who owned “that vacant lot in front of your house.” Why, oh why couldn’t he have just been a Jehovah’s Witness?

“He was,” Sue said. “They were looking for a place that looked cheap and abandoned where they could build a new hall.”

Being clubbed by the Garden Club doesn’t bother me so much, but Sue takes it personally. Not against the garden club – against me.

The problem is that I am the kind of person who pulls up the flowers and leaves the weeds. And ever since that unfortunate accident with the Roundup sprayer, I’m not even allowed near the garden anymore.