I Hate Yard Work, But...
2004-10-16, 8:38 p.m.

Today has been an OK day. A productive day. A day in which we have made hordes of hardcore environmentalists cringe and howl. It has been the Day of the Annihilation of the Foliage.

Our front yard has brought many things to mind, such as �po white trash� and �lazy bums� for starters, because the flower beds were in such pathetic shape. Not only were there weeds (which happens when you don�t pull them for a month or three), but there were daisies. The daisies from Hell.

Last year I sprinkled daisy seeds, my favorite, and knowing that they are such good pleasing little flowers, I expected them to stay in place and grow according to directions. They wandered aimlessly instead to points not remotely near where originally planted, and burst from the ground with the force of demon spawn. The supposedly little pleasant two-foot-high plants were instead four-foot-and-climbing yard eaters, overpowering everything else in the flower bed and strongly resembling gangly blooming weeds. And did I mention that a single daisy can produce roughly 30 billion seeds? Seeds which fell back into the flower bed and have now sprouted? These are The Daisies That Would Not Die.

Until Hubby and I sprayed the flower bed, daisies and all, with about 5 gallons of Roundup this evening. That ought to do it. So we contaminated the city�s groundwater supply for the next 4 generations, eliminated the dark damp leafy home for several previously undiscovered insect species, turned our yard into a Superfund site�the daisies will be gone, and that�s what counts.

We also yanked out several sad, sad azalea plants. No one in their right mind plants azaleas in this part of the country. Those are the plants of which Lowcountry plantations are made, surrounding Charleston and the �Burg and similar locales while you sit amongst them and the pine trees and cypress draped with Spanish moss and sip your Co-Cola and swat mosquitoes. Here in the Middle/Upper South, azaleas wither, whine piteously, and pray for death. Far be it from us to let them suffer needlessly. Out they came, and suddenly we were po white trash no mo. Amazing what can be achieved through the process of elimination. Who would have thought that a shovel and a couple of minutes of tugging and lugging would propel us into a higher demographic? Go figure.

There is one last enemy to vanquish in our yard: Bermuda grass. I would like to find out who developed Bermuda grass, beat his @ss, and make him get on his hands and knees and pull that crap out of the flower beds. That stuff is insidious, worse than kudzu, slithering its way underground and poking its ugly mug in twelve different directions all around the freaking house. In case you couldn�t tell, I really don�t like Bermuda grass. Really. If you have a problem with that, go hump a tree or whatever it is treehuggers do and don�t b*tch in my direction. I am armed with pointy yard tool thingies and you really don�t want to mess with me now. Amazing all the places one can insert a rake.

Why am I so testy? For starters, I am less than thrilled about yard work in general. The exception is mowing the lawn. I loooooove my riding mower. I have loved riding mowers since I was 10 and my dad convinced me that learning to mow the grass and steer the mower was one giant step closer to learning to drive. What he never figured was that I would actually ENJOY it. It's uninterrupted alone time, if only because no one wants to get close enough to have their toes amputated. But today, and this is what gave me a slow burn, Hubby got on MY mower and WOULD NOT GET OFF. I flapped my arms. I boinged. I bounced. I did my best Stone Age sign language in front of the entire neighborhood, dancing around and ordering Hubby off of my mower. He refused. He mowed the entire yard on my riding mower, mouthing that he had some sort of superior system to mine and I knew nothing short of a lightning bolt would unseat him. I prayed for lightning. It didn't come. Then he had the AUDACITY to say he would like to SELL MY MOWER and get a smaller one. So we have a tractor to mow a 5 square foot patch of lawn. Overkill never hurt anyone.

So, I got stuck with all the lousy crap parts of the yard work while It On A Stick zipped around on MY mower like some sort of royalty and ruined my perfectly nice afternoon. Then he sat in the house and watched "Jumanji" with Daughter for the umpteenth time while I rolled on the ground in a life-or-death chokehold with snarling patches of Bermuda grass. Thanks for the support, Babe.

Did I mention I hate Bermuda grass?

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