We live on a large nicely-sized corner lot in a nice little town with nice people and it’s nice and quiet. It’s a nice place to live. Seriously, y’all, it’s like effing Mayberry here. Everyone knows everyone else
The evenings are spent waving to folks as they walk by with their nice little dogs and nice children in nice strollers or wagons. When those folks walk by the tend to comment on our lawn. Like, specifically the grass. They always say, “Golly. Your lawn sure is nice.” It happens at least once a week, perhaps once a day in the summer when we’re outside more. It’s green and pretty and with a gazillion dogs romping in our fenced backyard on a regular basis (we have two dogs and I dog sit) it’s amazing that our lawn continually looks like a golf course. All manicured, perfectly green, nary a bald spot to be found. Well, it’s amazing to the nice people. I know better.
See, I’m married to Forrest Gump.
Not really. I mean, my husband never ran across the country or played ping-pong championships in China or called out JENNAY and certainly doesn’t sit on benches with boxes of chocolate. He does, however, enjoy taking care of grass. It’s his hobby, something he gets excited about. I’m not talking about MJ, 420, weed or herb. I’m talking about the good ole Kentucky Blue Grass Variety.
The hubs and I, we couldn’t be more polar opposite. I’m allergic to grass. I hate the sound of lawnmowers. The stench of gas mixed with oil and the sound of a two-stroke engine are enough to send me into a tail spin. My husband? Would buy gas-n-grass cologne, methinks. He spends most of his free time tinkering with his lawn tractor, sharpening grass blades, maintaining his weed whackers (no, not a euphemism. Actual weed whackers. You’ve got a dirty mind, yo). He rescues push mowers from the curbs of folks in town hell bent on casting them off. At one time we had SEVEN MOWERS in the garage that were in various stages of being repaired.
My man regularly tests the pH of our lawn. Did you know you could do that? YOU DO NOW. And! He rents a special machine and aerates it every fall. AND! He goes to great lengths to find the perfect organic, non-toxic fertilizer made from worm poo and stuff. You know, so as not to poison the dogs and kids? A teensy bit important. Dandelions frighten the aitch-EE-double-hockey-sticks out of the man. If one gets to the point of turning into a “wish” and my kid gets one? OH MY GAH. Not pretty. Do not ever come here and try it. Not that it has happened often in the six years we have lived here. Have I mentioned? HE DIGS THEM ALL UP BY HAND.
This grassness, this Forrest Gumpness, is being passed down to one of our offspring. While both of our boys love mechanical things and grass maintenance, our younger son is the more severely affected with the grass-cutting affliction. If he hears the lawnmower start up he runs like a bat out of Hades to put on his ear protection and hop on the tractor with Daddy. I have videos and pictures galore of our special little boy (and I mean special, like significant special needs and stuff) sitting on Daddy’s lap, one with the green, all zenned out and stuff. Since our little guy is not-yet-verbal at the age of eight, it gives them something to bond over. They need no words to speak. No, they can just feel the grass growing and know it needs to be cut. Daddy looks over at our boy, the boy gives him a nod and they walk hand and hand to the garage door to bring out the John Deere and get to cutting. Two of my guys, abso-smurfly in heaven. It may seem strange to some, but Hubs doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t go out partying and comes home every night to his family. So grass obsession? I’ll take it. Besides, the whole town stands in awe, green with envy (GUFFAW! BAD PUN!), beholding the kryptonite-like power of our emerald lawn. And that’s nice.
Marj Hatzell isn’t a writer but she plays one on TV. She’s a Domestic Engineer, Total Babe, and SAHM of two boys with Autism, ADHD and a variety of other acronyms. Marj was picked last for dodge ball in grade school, was a band geek (she played the flute, and one time, at band camp…), and prefers dogs more than people, which means she has STELLAR social skills. Marj can be bribed to do anything with potatoes and/or bacon. Usually both. You can find her at her non-paying day job, the wildly unsuccessful blog The Domestic Goddess, at Twitter, and onFacebook.
About Comic Relief Roster
You, Ma’am, are teh awesome.
Why, thank you very much.
Twitter Name: thedgoddess
Your husband would have a coronary if he saw how we tended to our lawn. We cut it short and hope that by the end of June it’s so dead it barely grows the rest of the summer.
Twitter Name: householdsix
He goes to other people’s houses and has to resist the urge to dig up dandelions. I kid you not.
Twitter Name: thedgoddess
I’m not keen on lawn work, mainly due to the related mental abuse done to as a child by my father who owned a lawn and garden store.
Luckily here in TX, the drought has fried ALL my grass. I just have to kick a tumbleweed out of the way from time to time.
Twitter Name: Ronald Mattocks
My in-laws in Nevada were THRILLED the desert isn’t conducive to growing lawns. They had stones. STONES. UN ACCEPTABLE.
Twitter Name: thedgoddess