back porch sleuthiness.

Aren't these pretty?



And these?



Yes. Mid-June, I was suddenly, inexplicably consumed with the need to be Earth Mother (on my back porch) and be very, very green. Or at least give the appearance that I am a very, very green Earth Mother. And so I trotted off to Home Depot and spent $60+ on flowers and some pampas grass. And then? About a week later, I wake up to THIS horror (if you have small children in the vicinity, please cover their eyes and send them out of the room right now):



At first, I thought it was the yardworkers. I thought the yardworkers had had enough of this neighborhood's crabbiness and were letting us know exactly how they felt by whacking our poor, innocent flowers. See, we live in this neighborhood that was hard-marketed to active adults (active adults...translation: retired people too young for the Old Folks Home, yet old enough to love sitting at their front windows--notebook and pen in hand--keeping tabs on all the shortcomings (and goings) of all their neighbors, and then sending out mass emails to the Homeowner's Association/neighborhood about anything that chaps their ass) (and some of their asses get chapped quite a bit, by the way--like, say, you accidentally forget to drag your garden hose back into your garage one night...that ticks them off...or like, maybe you put out GREEN garden furniture instead of black, or hung beige curtains instead of starch white in your front windows--oh! my! god! Things like that totally upset them, to the point they'd like to know why isn't there a division in the local police department that deals with incorrect indoor/outdoor colors and garden utensils left lying around?)

...........where was I? Oh yes: active adults. We live amongst them--and they're no longer the young bucks they once were, so the vast majority of our neighborhood HOA dues go to a landscaping company who mows the lawns for us (and here, I do use the word "lawns" loosely...I'd characterize what we have as more..."quilted pieces of grass here and there that you can mow with a weed trimmer"). And the active adults are always picking on the yardworkers for things like mowing too short, or not mowing short enough, or mowing left to right, or mowing right to left. Or mowing too early in the morning. Or too late in the afternoon. Or not fertilizing. Or over-fertilizing. Or wearing green instead of orange. Things like that are what matter to the 70+ set in our barrio--and those poor lawn mower dudes will never, ever get it right with these people. It's been an ongoing war, established 2003.

And so I thought about that, how the yardworkers are always getting yelled at by women standing in their doorways in curlers and mumus or old bald guys outside measuring their grass with rulers, and then I felt bad because: No, Amy. You leave those poor yardworkers alone. It's bad enough they have to deal with the active adults and their weekly emails/notes/complaint letters, and Ms. S across the street who one time threatened to sue somebody because her mulch was a 1/4 inch too low.

And then my inner Sherlock Holmes took over: HEY! Maybe...MAAAAAYBE...the active adults are the culprits! That would be totally elementary, my dear Watson. Like, maybe unbeknownst to rest of us, 86 year old Mr. F at 3874 has been trying for months to woo the affections of 90 year old Ms. W at 2456. But Mr. F is too cheap to take his 1972 Buick to Kroger and get a bouquet of pink and white carnations that are always on special for $4.99, so he waits until 1 AM and then creeps around in the backyards snipping off all his neighbors' flowers so he can make huge, elaborate black market bouquets for Ms. W! aHA!! I KNEW IT!! That Mr. F has always looked very suspicious to me, what with his trousers hiked up to his chest and that combover thing he's got going on. I'm going to make a note about this and send out a mass email warning the ENTIRE neighborhood about him and his evil doings!! Guard your flowers, girls! Mr. F is prowling around late at night!!

And so I decided to set up a trap for Mr. F: Yesterday, I went out to Home Depot (they know me by face there now) and bought $30 worth of more flowers, the nicest arrangements I could find. And then I planted them. And then I lay in wait. For Mr. F and his conniving, flower snatching ass.

Except crap! Dagnabit! I fell asleep. And when I woke up this morning, this is what I found:



GASP!! Mr. F!!! He's UNSTOPPABLE!!! Doesn't the police department have a division for Flower Thieves?? I mean, they're right up there with gangster meth pushers and robbers that commit weekly bank heists. Is what I always say.

But then I ate some wheat chex with organic skim milk and calmed down a little. And I went out to look at Mr. F's handiwork again, and upon further inspection of the murdered species, I decided it was probably not Mr. F after all. Because I remembered how, one day earlier this year, we'd seen a deer in our neighbor's backyard. Just standing there, all nonchalant like she owned the damn place, flaunting her deer-ness right in front of us. Deer. You know how they are. And then I thought about all the rabbits I see hopping around here, breeding like...um, rabbits, and how they're just about grass nibbling and rabbit sex parties and more grass nibbling and if they can throw some flowers into their herbal drug mix they'll do it as soon as look at you. And I thought about how I have to refill the bird feeder constantly because the squirrels are all hoggy and mean and won't share with the birds. Freakin' squirrels. And so I put down my busybody notepad and pen and gave a big, defeated sigh. Because really. Gangster meth pushers, bank heist robbers, and the Mr. F's of the world are easy peasy to deal with. But how can you beat wildlife? They are legion.

Fortunately, I was given something wildlife weren't: a larger brain. And the ability to control myself. And also that George Bush saying: Fool me one time, that's for sure. Fool me two times and you're a...fooler. And that's on me. Again. So...don't fool me. No more than two a time.

So today, I'm headed out to Home Depot (this time I plan to wear a name tag so it'll be the place where everybody knows my name, where they're always glad I came, just like Norm on CHEERS). Because guess what Bambi and Thumper, guess what? Your little midnight feasts are OVER, furry friends. That's right. There's a storm coming and it's called Pampas Grass That You Don't Like To Eat Because It's Just Not As Tasty as Flowers. Oh, what was that? Oh, you think that's so funny squirrels? Well guess what: you're next. It's just a matter of time before me and all the bluebirds in the 'hood come down on your chirpy little asses with our new squirrel-proof bird feeder we're picking up with the pampas grass at Home Depot later. Tell me can you handle THAT.

Man. It's hard, sweaty work doing battle with Mother Nature, y'all. Hard, sweaty work.

Pampas grass. Back porch Defenders of Yards.