This blog is called “Snark and Cookies”, but I noticed that we have been woefully short on snark lately. Actually, we’ve been short on cookies too, come to think of it. My absolute best recipe (Chocolate Brownie Cookie Thingies, or CBCTs for short) is only available on a need-to-know basis, but I could probably come up with something cookie-related at some point.
Unless I forget.
Which I will.
(Hey, at least I’m honest.)
Anyway, snark. (I may be a little out of practice, so bear with me here.) Can someone please explain to me about primroses? I don’t mean glorious bursts of color like this Eugenie primrose (courtesy of http://www.mooseyscountrygarden.com):
No, those are perfectly lovely, and practically worth moving to England for. (I’m sure I could think of other reasons to move to England, but blue primroses would be on the list.) No, I’m talking about THESE:
Even this picture makes a tiny bit of sense because they’re in a curved line, like the rocks, but … no, I still don’t get it. What possesses people to buy these tiny compact plants, in a variety of utterly clashing colors, and plant them all a foot apart with gaping expanses of bark dust between them? They aren’t creeping vines that will fill in all the gaps by May, and have you clipping them back by July, and find you attacking them in desperation with a weed-whacker by September just to keep them from attacking innocent pedestrians. They aren’t rare and fragile orchids that look their best when seen in splendid isolation. They’re slow to self-propagate, if they’ll bother to do it at all, so it’s not even a long-term plan like daffodils or tulips, where a few planted a ways apart will some day grow into a sweeping mass of soft pinks or brilliant yellows.
They’re just squat, smug little things, sitting there staring at me as I go by on my walk. Especially those red ones with the yellow centers – they always look vaguely ominous to me, like little red-rimmed eyes. I swear they’re looking at me, the ones on the corner of 9th and Taylor, you know the yard I mean, with the perfect little grass and the perfect little shrubs and the yard edged so straight you’re afraid you’ll cut yourself if you step on it. They cut down their trees, probably because they weren’t perfect little trees, and planted primroses instead. Perfect little bark dust (the weeds wouldn’t dare grow) and rows of primroses, camped out at intervals, sneering at me as I pass.
“We KNOW you don’t like us, and we don’t CARE. We don’t CARE if we clash, we LIKE it like that. We are never going to do anything useful, just sit here looking at you with a nasty expression on our squinched-up little faces, and if we could, we would TRIP YOU.”
Would it be wrong of me to come out in the dead of night, pull them up, pack them all willy-nilly into one planter with some pale blue gilia growing wild around the edges to soften it up, and plant a couple of redwood saplings in their place?
[moment of stunned silence as I re-read what I just wrote]
Something tells me that if I am contemplating guerilla gardening and imagining that my neighbor’s flowers actively dislike me, I may need a little more sleep. Good night, then, and if there are trees growing at 9th and Taylor in the morning, I know nothing about it.