I’m reluctantly cleaning house (the cleaning lady forgot us yesterday) and trying to get back to my writing. In between bouts of mad mopping, I zip out to spritz some muddy Weed-B’Gone (probably more like $$ be gone) on the dandelions crouching in the lawn.
Hub mows regularly so they’ve mutated and grow so low in the turf that I have to bend close to see them, which annoys me because then my back starts to hurt and I remember my mother saying, “Well, dear, stay in school and get a good education so you won’t have to do manual labour.” Ha! Ma, if you could see me now, swathed in netting, slathered with sunblock and insect repellant, with my ratty jeans tucked into my old hiking boots, hunched over the lawn like I’m grooming a rice paddy.
Last week I was out with an old kitchen knife, stabbing at roots like a crazy person, muttering at our lawn service provider because they’d jacked up the prices so much even I couldn’t convince myself it was worth the effort to have them do the yard. I was on a tear and figured I’d race around the yard getting in my daily steps instead of going for a walk like a normal person would do. Instead, though, I managed to shove the tip of the blade through the side of my index finger into my nail. There was a surprising amount of blood. Stupidly obsessed pioneer fool that I was, I wrapped the finger in a semi-clean tissue and spend another 15 minutes hacking and slashing.
There was frost this morning and the furnace is running. Guess my procrastinating about taking the protective cover off the air conditioner doesn’t matter now, does it? The thing is, there’s another crop of yellow offenders I have to go root out. After the cleaning is finished.
No, maybe I’ll bake some cookies. If it’s too chilly to golf, then the weeds can wait.