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handsome contractor was light in the loafers. His husband Jerry spent a lot of time jogging shirtless, even in winter. Stan liked him, too; he was always smiling and friendly.  
    “Stan? Are you listening to me?”
    “Yes, Aida-honey. Duane keeps his yard very nice.”
    “No, I asked you to go make sure Waldo is in Duane’s yard. I think this is his poop and it’s not like Duane to let him run around loose.”
    “Then how do you know what his poop looks like, honey?”
    She sighed. “Because we talked about it, Stan. Don’t you remember? At the Morning Glory Street Fair last October. You were there.”
    “Sorry, I guess I wasn’t listening.” He needed a respite from his wife. Now. “Aida-honey, I’m going to take a little walk. I need some exercise.”
    “You go ahead without me,” she said, as if she ever came along. “I’m getting the snapdragon bed ready now, you know that. Our seeds have sprouted and I want to get them into the ground and out of the guest room as soon as the weather permits. We’re going to win first prize in this year’s Morning Glory Circle Snapdragon Contest.” She put her hands on her plump hips and turned to stare three doors down at Prissy Martin’s big white house. She eyed the freshly-painted shutters edging the windows, stared at the tall flagpole that waved American, POW, and MIA flags. Below those were California’s golden bear flag and the Snapdragon flag.  
    Stan suppressed a grin. Aida wanted to win that Snapdragon flag more than anything, but if she won it, she’d insist he erect a flagpole. Probably an inch taller than Prissy’s, too. When it came to pissing contests, his Aida had more to prove than any man. He glanced at her half-hoed flower bed and wondered if the dog with the pale poop liked to dig up gardens, too.  
    “We’ll win, Stan,” she said. “Oh, we’ll win big this year.” She smiled proudly. “Red, white, and blue snaps blooming in the biggest American flag on the block! Prissy Martin will turn purple with envy.” She looked at the huge rectangular patch of garden that had replaced the lawn. “It will be grand.”  
    “Okay, Aida-honey, that’s nice. I’m going for my walk now.” He turned.
    “Stan?”
    “What?” He tried to sound pleasant.
    “If you happen to see Burke Collins, would you ask him if he’s going to barbecue for the Presidents’ Day block party next month?”
    “Sure,” he called over his shoulder. Burke Collins was a little too full of himself for Stan’s taste, but he supposed he was a nice enough guy, especially if you enjoyed your liquor. Burke’s Kalamazoo barbecue cost thousands and he liked to show it off. He called it the Rolls Royce of grills.
    “When you pass Prissy Martin’s house, see if you can tell if she’s fertilized her flower beds yet.”
    “Okie-dokie.” He waved without looking back. He passed the Stine home, a neat two-story traditional painted the same blue as the eye shadow Phyllis Stine favored. Well-tended white roses and neat box hedges eased the pain of the color considerably, though Aida vehemently disagreed. Next, as the cul-de-sac began its narrow turn, came the Halloween House - that’s what Aida and Prissy called it. Hank and Crystal Lowell, their rambunctious kids, and their standard poodles lived there. Hank owned a motorcycle shop. Nice guy. Crystal was nice too, once you got past that lipstick-red dye job on her head. Nice from the neck down, though. The mouthwatering scent of barbecue wafted from the Lowell’s backyard as Surfin’ Bird played and the kids whooped and hollered, splashing in the heated pool.  
    Next, sitting center stage on Morning Glory Circle, was Prissy Martin’s coiffed two-story Federalist, white clapboard, red brick chimneys, and classic black shutters fronted by the only green grass in January on the cul-de-sac. AstroTurf. It was as neat and clipped as Prissy herself and her flags fluttered so high and proud that the sac called it the White