Grass...

...it's a problem. I haven't mowed since late last summer. I've raked leaves. Mainly in the front. Except for the big pile which has turned to mulch and smothered my carefully chemically treated zoysia.

After an incredibly difficult day full of curve balls of angst, I decided to become one with the earth. That can be dangerous. Like life, a simple little suburban quarter-acre yard can be loaded with danger. It looks safe from a distance. But it's not.

My yard is full of risks. Poison ivy - mowing it is the worst thing you can do - it sprays its powerful urushiol oil into the air, and wreaks havoc on my skin. My body, my brain, my mood. I'd rather be tear-gassed. Seriously.

Then there are the gumballs. I hate those bastards. That's what they are. The female sweetgum tree indescriminately drops a bazillion zygotes. Fuck her. I keep meaning to call an arborist - I've heard there's a birth control shot for those fuckin' bitch trees. Why they're so dangerous - when you're mowing, they shoot in random directions like pinballs, and can come dangerously close to putting out an eye. Plus, stepping on one can totally screw your ankle. My dear friend Lundy tripped and fell and scraped her knee on one of those mother fuckers at Christmas. Somehow, The D is immune to that danger.

Ok, enough about that. I went out, all full of frustration, intending to finish both the front and back yard. Then I decided I'd just tackle the front. Then I gave up half-way. Garbage can was full. No bags. Plus I wimped out. The D came out to instruct, but since I had my brand new Non-Apple MP3 blasting into my ears full blast, his mouth was moving but nothing was coming out. A good thing. He'd have been an easy target.

So here I am. No social life. Weighing my choices. Should I stay or should I go? I think I'll cook a hamburger for D, take a shower, and head to Good House to escape. My CDs are there. Maybe I'll organize them. Or try to. Or I'll take my guitar and try my new method. Or work on my incredible new groundbreaking idea of guitar finger prosthetics. Or fall asleep in the bathtub. Or the front yard.

Anything is better than this...