Mr. Candy and I went to our friends’ house for a barbecue this weekend, and I literally stopped in my tracks upon noticing the calla lilies lining their front walkway. I’m not usually the type to get excited about such things — the beauty of a beer keg gleaming under the sunlight, yes, but not garden-y stuff (as horticulturists call it) — but I sure do love me some calla lilies. “My favorite!” I squealed. (If your dog started howling on Saturday around 1:30 PDT, now you know why. Sorry about that.) In fact, I had wanted to use calla lilies at our wedding until the florist informed me they cost four-hundred-thousand dollars per flower. True story. So I had to settle for buying crepe paper ones on our Mexican honeymoon. Which are currently collecting dust in our downstairs bathroom.
“I think they’re fake,” Mr. Candy whispered.
Fake flowers? Stuck in their yard? Sounds like something the Spears family would do. But they did look too good to be true. I gave ’em the official touch test.
“Real,” I confirmed, totally jealous.
When I later complimented our friend on his lovely calla lilies, he looked confused.
“Oh, is that what they’re called? They just kind of sprang up on their own.”
Hmpf. And he calls himself a gay man. Next time instead of bringing chips and dip, I may need to bring a pair of scissors and getaway car.