Marge and Gwen and the Dandelions

Is that how you spell 'dandelion'? There are words that I think I know how to spell until I see them. I am a good speller, but definitely not a "Desk Set" librarian. Those chicks in that movie could spell like nobody's business.

Anyway, I've wanted to write about Marge and Gwen and the dandelions for weeks. Marge lives across from me, and Gwen (there are so many Gwens in the world, suddenly!) lives two doors down from her. They are both spry, elderly ladies, with PERFECT lawns. Marge has the herbicide truck come by every two weeks, and I think Gwen wrestles the broadleaf culprits with her bare hands. I like both ladies, and I envy having the perfect lawn, but I'm mildly scared of them, and this is why...

In between Marge and Gwen there is a little yellow house, owned by a guy who works in the art world in some capacity. A nice fellow who mows, but like me, a guy who does not use weed killer. The dandelions spring up like a mountain meadow across his lawn, and then drift blowsily onto the green velvet on either side. Does this make him a bad person? Evidently, yes.

It's too funny. About 3 times a day, Marge and Gwen hang over their fences and chat to each other across his yard. They walk over and show each other their geraniums and irises (this is why I like them, it's so cute). But occasionally, when the wind is up, I see them standing in front of art-man's lawn with their hands on their hips, and I hear the words "damn dandelions" waft over the wind. The tone is bitter and outraged, like the man eats babies.

Marge and Gwen have come over to visit me while I dig up my flowerbeds, to welcome me to the neighbourhood. I like them, but I'm always worried that I'm going to become dandelion trash like poor bobo in the yellow house. Who knows what may tip the scales against you? Beware the septuagenarian with the green thumb, who doesn't smile with her eyes...