The Lawn

Mowing my weeds, or what others refer to as a lawn, holds a special place in hell.

I know I said I was borderline suicidal when I slept in my 90 degree attic for 2 summers, but every time I have to do yard work I consider bridge jumping.

I’ve owned my home for 4 years now and I’ve got to tell you my lawn is the worst part of my purchase. That and the fact that the woman who owned my home before me, let her fucking cat piss everywhere. Remember how I hate cats? They can sense my disdain too; I always get scratched and hissed at when I encounter the feline kind.

I’ve duly noted that in the future, it would be impossible to sell my home in the Springtime, because my basement smells like a nursing home. So does my front door threshold…until recently. Now it smells of urine and rotten Bald Eagle eggs. *Refer to my Egged post if you didn’t get the joke here.

When I was house hunting, I was torn between purchasing a home or a townhome. I remember my dad saying to me: “Now Andrea, if you buy a home, you’re going to have to do yard work. Let me tell you, it would be really nice to have someone take care of your yard.” I remember exactly how I responded to him: “Dad, I’m not a princess, I can mow my own lawn for God’s sake.” Well I’m not a princess after all, but turns out, I am definitely a dumbass.

I hate my lawn. My house was built over 65 years ago and I think the ‘grass’ came from the pits of a 1950 dust bowl hell. It could however pay off for me to go ‘Arizona’ on it and make it into a flat dry land, sans the oasis. I’ll consider this for landscaping Spring of 2018.

The only way I can make this weedspread presentable is to throw hosta plants in any hole I can find. My mom loves hostas. When she’s upset at life, she’ll wander out into the yard with a rusty shovel, split hostas and plant them.

My dad has accidentally driven over some of the diehards that line their driveway and when he does, it’s real obvious he gives zero f&@#s. Mom throws a mini-fit and then dad corrects her by saying: “I couldn’t kill those mother fuckers if I tried.”

This however is untrue, as he went hog wild with weed killer once in my yard (because it is 93% weeds) and killed off some of my green gems. Cat lady planted hostas in a perfect circle around the tree in my front yard and now the east edge of the hosta surround looks like, as my Grandma Mimi would’ve said, “a real cripple.” This is no reference to people who are actually handicapped or crippled, just an adjective Mimi liked to use for a busted-ass plant. No wonder my mom has Pamisms; she was following in G’ma’s clever little footsteps.

Recently, I’ve been wondering how it might look if I plant a variety of hostas in some sort of pattern in my yard, and then let the grass just grow wild around them until it’s about knee height. I could spell out the word ‘shitehole’ (I love British swear words) in hostas and it could be like a curse crop circle. No offense to my neighborhood, (key word: hood) but I’d fit right in here on the eastside.

Speaking of fitting in…two months ago, if there was ever such a thing, I could’ve won Eastsider of the Month.

My mom and I color our hair a lot. My mom has been every shade under the sun and she is pretty good at helping color my hair if I get the itch. When we paint on highlights (in between my real salon color jobs) we know the bleach has to warm up a bit to be effective. Instead of pulling strands through a cap and being precise, mom paints the bleach down my hair in tufts, and we put a plastic bag over it to allow it to incubate. You’ve got to be careful when tying the bag on and there needs to be a little air in it, so it doesn’t flatten the bleached strands all over the neighboring hair. There is a science to box coloring your hair people and after my mom has singed hers off a few times, she knows it. So that June evening mom came over, painted my hair and wrapped my bleached bangs in tinfoil for good measure. Then we threw a bag over the whole kit’n’caboodle (Pamism) so the bleach could ferment.

It was a really nice evening so while I was processing, we went and sat on my front steps and talked. As the neighbors walked by, there I was with my paint clothes on, a Blue Moon in hand and tinfoil and a plastic bag on my head. Just waving hello and visiting with Pam-alam-a-dingdong. I thought, this is Eastside living baby. I am all about fitting in. Makes me feel like one of the people.

Back to ye ole lawn…Yesterday was the last mow of the summer for me. I’m going to experiment with the wild grass idea for the next few months. The city definitely won’t notice, unless someone goes missing on my block and they have to search my meadow for a body.

I’ll grow my own little version of Jumanji right here in the city proper. If you want to role-play and dress up as the hunter Van Pelt from the movie, go to my contact page and message me. When you show up to the jungle, I’ll be laying in the grass with my face painted and a machete of some sort. Who knows, we might even shank the perps who egged my house. Thank you for reading. Keep it real y’all.

7 thoughts on “The Lawn

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