On Death and Lawn Maintenance

We recently purchased a semi-detached rowhouse in the northern reaches of DC. This has meant so many changes and excitements and new responsibilities that I couldn't even begin to ennumerate them. We've reached a new plateau this week where it feels like for every task we accomplish, three more get added to the list, each requiring more time, travel, additional furniture/tools, research, and energy than the last. Welcome to the Hydra of Home Ownership!

One of the tasks I've taken primarily responsibility for is our yard. I have grand ambitions for the future, but for now, the yard responsibilities basically boil down to "making it look like this house is occupied by reasonable humans." This, in turn, boils down to battle to the pain with a jungle of tall, prolific weeds whose root systems are probably older, and certainly smarter, than I am. Because of the size and shape of the space, our newly-acquired weed whacker is my new best friend. Though I'm not sure it feels the same way about me. Here's how it goes:

1. Suit up. This means donning shorts and a shirt that won't be too inappropriate when I bend over, and then covering myself head-to-toe in bug spray. Then lace on sneakers, both pairs of which I have now greenified past the point of no return.

2. Survey the battlefield. Tonight before whacking I had to locate and move the dozen-plus outdoor potted plants we left in the jungle after the move, which led to such fascinating discoveries as Wow Slugs Can Actually Move Kinda Fast and Oh My God Why Are There So Many Ant Larvae.

3. Inventory weapons. Weed whacker, check. 50-ft extension cord, check. Righteous anger, check.

4. Go to work. The beauty of the weed whacker is that you can start anywhere and just keep going. There's no filter to clean, no gas to fill up, no nonsense. Just carnage.

5. Power through the guilt. Inevitably as I whack, I find myself thinking about the number of lives that I am upending, or just plain ending. I have little remorse about the weeds themselves, as their whole raison d'etre is to survive ANYTHING. But what of the zillions of little grasshoppers, roly-polys, ants and other harmless creatures who make their homes in this space? Every book I ever read in my childhood about a garden dweller runs through my mind, along with probably a few that I totally made up. Thanks for the trauma-inducing anthropomorphism-laden memories, Roald and Beatrix (Spoiler alert, Ewan Mcgregor DIES). 

As I walk the killing fields, I imagine the little bugs sitting down to a nice dinner in their comfy, seemingly-secure homes, only to find themselves suddenly in the middle of an incomprehensible Hurricane of Death. What did they do to deserve this? They merely nestled in our cozy little yard, unaware that it was now Under New Ownership and that eviction notices were being served. Sorry guys! I really don't hate bugs (unless they eat my hydrangeas) and I'm okay with all of you living in the yard, as long as you stay out of the house! But, I will not be stopping the Hurricane of Death, so, something to keep in mind.

6. Mopping up. My general recommendation is to have someone else do the dirty work of raking, bagging and discarding the wet green plant carcasses you've just created. That is, if you bother to discard them at all. Leaving them could be a pretty powerful message to the rest of the lot. Plus, raking is the worst.

7. Retire, victorious. Okay, victorious is maybe an overstatement. "Exhausted" might fit better, though really the physical exertion of holding a magic stick that does all your killing for you is kind of minimal. How about "Retire, encrusted." Specifically, limbs, hair and glasses, gloriously coated with plant matter and bug parts.

8. Shower. Live to fight another day.