It’s the first non-rainy day in weeks and I’m working like an idiot taking turnip rooted weeds out of my patchy, clover-filled grass that with a mind of it’s own has decided not to grow in large areas of my lawn when suddenly the entire daunting process has me collapsed in a heap of mud streaked tears.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
There was a time my lawn looked fabulous…and I liked it that way. My ex worked for several summers as a landscaper and learned the skills not only necessary to make the mulch look absolutely perfect but also to grow luscious green grass. I struggle with keeping the dog alive on most days let alone grow a beautifully manicured place for her to crap! I’m out there working my ass off when it hits me that the summer before he left he spent more time gardening the neighbour’s flower beds than he did mine…and I can’t quite get a calloused grip of the ridiculous rake contraption I’m trying to maneuver through my mulch let alone trying to figure out how I ever let my neighbours weeds take over my nice pristine, green lawn.
In my defence of having a weedy, patchy, “I didn’t know I should have fertilized it a few weeks ago” garden… the inside of the house is clean…mostly…I’ve caught up on the laundry…except for the stuff spread all over the kids’ floors….and at night, you can’t even see the dust.
I hauled my rubber boots off and left them on the front deck along with the weed whacker and a ridiculous pair of flowered gardening gloves that no more make me look like Martha Stewart than the tea biscuits I, from time to time, purchase at the Superstore and try to pass off as my own.
I’m putting my feet up…having a cup of tea…taking a deep breath before heading back out to prove to myself that mowing, weeding and mulching are on the growing list of things I can do.
I’ve fertilizer to spread and before long I’m told…my grass will be good as new again.
Either that, or I’m laying new sod.