I recently mentioned that my Sainted wife, having outgrown our little garden, joined the local Garden Club. They loved her (who wouldn't) so they elected her president.
What do the El Presidentes do, I innocently inquired. Oh, setting meeting agendas, running said meetings, writing minutes, making crust free cucumber sandwiches and that sort of thing. Oh, and designing complex floral designs for contests as well, that even I must admit are most impressive.
Wow, I thought. How many are you? Exactly 50. How many guys? Exactly none - we don't permit them, she said. I quailed. I riposted. I blew at least two fuses. No guys? In 2013?
Well, I averred, here's a potential legacy for your presidency. Admit men and we're not talking cucumber sandwich makers, we're talking Master Gardeners. How can they say no in this day and age? After all, you persuaded me to get a cat despite your being deathly allergic, you're very persuasive - what can go wrong?
Something about Master Gardeners knowing too much, being able to dig properly-sized holes for roses faster than lightning, and oh, yeah - they were guys.
Now I'm a little peeved. You don't want to see a curmudgeon peeved. Given the constraints I mentioned in late June, I will now not merely insult neighborhood urchins - I will make attempts to run them down. Mothers putting out those stupid "slow-kids at play" signs - I will flatten them and leave a note that there is a park 1/2 mile away for kids to play in. Roads are for BMWs that corner at Mach 3.
Although, I will keep the car clean. After all, it's a BMW.
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