I Fought the Lawn and the…Lawn Won

It’s impossible to write an almost-lyric and not pause in the sentence where the real lyric does. Can’t do it.
But that’s not my point.
My point, my valid, cogent argument, my reason for writing, whining, and opining, is this: grass is against me.
And power tools.
My real point is this: Grass is against me, and it’s against power tools that are against it.
Let me ‘splain.
I tried to trim a bush; the clippers need sharpening.
I attempted to weed a flower bed, I accidentally and ignominiously rapped my noggin against a brick window sill. The window sill should not have been mortared in there, where I was weeding instead of staying attuned to my surroundings and locations of all types of construction materials.
Defeated, wounded, continually pawing at my own bangs to assure myself they were not soaking up blood from the gaping maw I envisioned across my left eye, I said to myself, “But it’s a pretty day, work needs to be done, and by golly…” (Yeah, I honestly say things like “by golly,” at least in my head; my head is a sad little place, but kind of sweet, idyllic, and black and white tinted like old Leave it to Beaver episodes; theme music is different, though, not so jaunty, sad to say.) “…there’s a whole three acres that will suffer under my good intentions this day!”
And then I pointed to the sky like Hamlet did with his whole soliloquy thing. He was delusional, I was determined; we both had reasons for the insistent finger pointing.
SO.
FIRST…I played with my chickens. Because they were there, and because I did not hand pick the wisest of yard birds, and because they’re slightly south of smart, I felt better about hitting my own brain against the literal side of my house. Anyway, I threw five blackberries at the feet of ten birds. One bird snapped up a berry; nine birds chased said first bird frantically around the coop, leaving four berries to rot and be buried by sand and soil in the wake of ten fleeing birds. Humorous and distracting; as a serial procrastinator, a Dual is as good as a Trifecta. (The third thing, to add to make the Dual a true Trifecta? Chocolate. Oh, or caffeine. What’s a Fourfecta, besides fun to say?)
Head throbbing a bit less, I ventured onto the SECOND thing on my To-Do list: edging the lawn. “I hereby declare that I shall edge,” I declared to no one at all, though I again had my finger pointed to the sky like I was gauging the wind patterns. (I had a head injury; cut me some slack.)
And thus did I edge, with my most favoritest lawn maintenance tool: the gas-powered weed whacker. How can one go through life without the joys of the gas-powered weed whacker? I vibrated so much that later I went to the local eatery to pick up to-go food — because I was not fit company for anyone ever who was dining in that restaurant; not enough body spray on the planet — my arm shook when I signed for dinner. No joke. I muttered, “Weed whacker,” by way of explanation and walked away, leaving them to ponder my outcry. People on the prairie love me.
BUT. Back to the story: after the chickens, after the edging, but before the dinner…
THIRD.
(Oh, and I ran out of whacking string. So half the three acres looks gooooood…that neighbor is happy with me again. At least until about two-thirds back, where the fence is still covered over in Johnson grass from last summer and a wild rose bush I won’t touch because…ow. The other neighbor? Eh. Who cares. (I’m kidding! I love my other-side-where-the-weeds-run-amok neighbors!…though I couldn’t really tell you their names…But they killed a rattlesnake last year, so I know they’re armed and thus I never want to tick them off.)
So back to…THIRD. I discovered another shiny toy in the garage when I went looking for whacking string. An electric hedge trimmer. Wow, who knew three Pampas grasses could be taken down to the size of Monkey Grass so very, very quickly and with so very, very much glee???
(
I did not worry about whacking string after the joy emanating from every pore after the hedge trimmer; that kind of fun can’t be beaten by any kind of string. The hedge trimmer isjusthisclose to being my new favoritest lawn tool, but I don’t have enough bushes for it to ever maintain top status. I have to let things grow again in order to use it, and who has that kind of time?)
FOURTH. Back to the lawn, because it needs a mow. Why did I use the present tense of that verb? Because…once the John Deere was no longer touching the tarmac — the back porch — and had run the length of a scant three feet, mowing down tens of blades of grass in its path, it ran out of gas. Bubs helped push it back into place. I swear it laughed. Bubs, however, did not.
LASTLY. I drove to the restaurant, and a goodly portion of shrimp fried rice helped cure not only the tremors left from too much weed whacking but also my ego, as today the lawn beat me. I accept that.
But I got the rice. So nanner, nanner, Lawn! I didn’t need you to look manicured, nope! I like that you’re shaggy and covered over with mounds of tumbling Pampas grass clippings and smooshed blackberries; that’s exactly the way I wanted the lawn to look at the end of this day.
Next weekend: Buy Gas.