The mean girls of the garden were stingy with their gifts. Flowering slowly, one bud at a time, then a second and a third they opened, and I tried to make friends with them. But the roses, all of them, pricked and tore and stabbed me with their vicious thorns even through gloves and long sleeves. So I chose to lose them. Let someone else try to tame these She-Devils, these beguiling multi-petal lace-edged beauties whose perfumed faces lured me in, soft as a new lover’s kiss, then stabbed with a pen knife if I leaned too close.

At least Edgar could get along with them. I offered all four blossoming sisters to him – take the pots even because I refuse to dig them out and let them to puncture me more. Here. Take ’em. Maybe you can tame them. At least they will go to a home that is not afraid of a cut or two or four.

I check in with Edgar weeks later. He loves them. They are blooming greedily, hungry for his love, and they seem to adore him. The pinks are shimmering, the reds are ruby and glistening in the sun. He respects them, waters in just the right places where their faces smile up at him. I guess I didn’t give them the respect they deserved. My scratches have healed, dried blood hardened and fallen off in the shower with a good scrub, lotion on my skin to smooth the scabs.

I gave away their prickly beauty, replaced them with thirsty hydrangeas who seem happy to see me, their sphere of delicate petals in purple, blue, and fuchsia. They are abundant and fill the containers, growing happily, gently promising never to hurt or stab me.

I lost the royalty of the roses, the haughty, nose-in-the-air kind of beauty that fascinates the masses, and traded them for the commoner who is kind and forgiving and doesn’t protest when touched. At least my skin is soft again, smooth like hydrangea leaves that welcome my pruning and watering. Indeed, sometimes when I walk into my garden, it appears that the hydrangeas are actually happy to see me. Let Edgar tame the mean girls. I’ll hang with my gal pals.

Julie Sherman is a long-time Petaluma resident who loves to write, read, bake, and travel the world with her husband, bassist Jeff Sherman.

A native San Franciscan, Julie is a mentor with Mentor Me of Petaluma and a member of the Petaluma Postcard Pod, an organization that supports democratic candidates, principles and ideals.

The mother of twin girls, opera singer Camille Sherman and music producer Emily Sherman, Julie resides in a little house with her husband, two cats, and a dog.

When not getting beat up by her garden, she enjoys reading in her modest backyard among the blooms.