Wallflowers Spread like Rotten Weeds

Will someone please give me some oxygen because I swear I can barely breathe. I can barely type or think or move my little fingers.

This past month I've been in a funk, a serious rotten dirty, nasty foul-tasting funk-- like the kind of funk you wake up with during allergy season-- call it a post nasal drip funk.

No I don't have allergies. A simple swig of Claritin would solve that problem. What I have can't be cured. I'm like the toddler who has just discovered she can't control the world, and you know what I can't and it's flipping making me psycho. If I were a dog, I'd run in circles all day. Instead I walk through my garden and try really hard not to think evil thoughts.

My dilemma started shortly before I left for Vegas. Remember I went there in April for some much needed relaxation. I sang. I danced. I drank 10 too many sour apple martinis (nobody told me martinis are like straight vodka-- ya-h-ouch!) I hiked in the Grand Canyon, twisted my knee and STILL managed to hobble through Vegas on count them FIVE INCH stilettos. I went to a trendy night club and realized I was old. I passed up the opportunity to go to a strip club and prove I'm still a naughty girl because really I'm not that girl any more.

And then I returned with a rush of happiness, a new suitcase for my new clothes and a darling ankle bracelet-- only to remember that I have neighbors.

Now, my neighbors are nice, really they are. I try to remind myself of that fact every day as I stare at my rose bushes and contemplate moving. These are nice people. They just happen to be from Palm Springs and haven't yet realized they live in a forest.

Upon returning and unpacking my suitcase, Mr. Palm Springs came over and asked if we'd mind if he drove over our freshly sodded lawn, tore down our fance and yanked out the climbing rose bush Ben's grandma gave me-- because apparently Mr. Palm Springs who works in the Real Estate field didn't notice he bought a house with only four-and-a-half feet between his house and his fence. Poor soul, if we don't let him tear up our yard, he won't be able to clear cut his and landscape with pretty trees.

My husband said he'd love to let him do it if he'd pay for the divorce fees, alamony and child support for the next 20 years because I'd leave him like a pair of white pants after Labor Day-- in a cramped box without any light and no hope of seeing any action until warmer, better days are upon us.

And so the next day, Mr. Palm Springs and his wife retaliate by buying three strawberry trees. You see, dear readers I have a very large strawberry tree in my backyard. It is my pride, my joy, my masterpiece of a tree. It is one of the few things in my life that I have not hestitated once to fork over the cold hard cash to bring home-- and let me tell you I forked over ALOT of cash for that damn tree.

Yes this sounds petty. I don't hold the patent on the strawberry tree, and I know this, but I'm still ticked off that they would do this just to get my goat.

And so I went out and bought a smoke tree and a pansy tree and felt much better.

You see, I have spent the last five years planning out this garden so I could be different. I searched for unusual trees and plants. I worked my petty little self righteous booty off, and I didn't do it so Mr. and Mrs. Palm Springs could come in and copy my stuff.

Their theory is that they want us all to have the same plants and similair landscaping styles so we can be uniform. I didn't move here so I could live in Stepford Hills. I like my individuality. I like my crazy plants and my wild butterfly garden and my rock retaining walls. I love my little yellow house with the green and white trim.

I don't want to see a replica next door. If I had wanted that I would have moved to the city and bought a tract house.

And so, each day I go out and prep my garden for summer,a nd everytime I return with a new plant, Mr and Mrs. Palm Springs come over and try to figure out what I've brought home.

They circle the drive and ask me questions-- to which I politely say that if they want help with their yard I'd be more than happy to help them. Which I would. My mom says it is so I can have a second garden and control what goes in it.

Crap. I am nuts. I can't control the world, but my goodness can I just have my little piece of Paradise without feeling like I'm playing in the sand box with Mr. and Mrs. Palm Springs who have hired a professional gardener to do all the dirty wor and remind me daily that they have more money to play this little game.

I don't want to play this game. I just want to be left alone.

Meanwhile, they just informed me that they bought a couple large "Storm trees" (smoke trees) and a couple of those dog trees too.

What can I do?

I can't beat them. I can't forbid them from copying my central design or from making my unique trees look common.

I should be flattered, right?

These are nice people. They like my taste.

I'm just a control freak-- freaking out over petty stuff.

But you know what? All I really want to do is to build a wall all the way around my property so I can have my garden once again. I just want that little sanctuary. I want that peace.

Tomorrow I do have a plan. I'm going to try kindness and bring over a super cool plant. Maybe Mrs. Palm Springs and I could go garden shopping and I could show her some other super cool plants that will make her yard look awesome-- but will not make her yard an extension of mine-- separate but equally beautiful.