A couple weeks ago I was hanging out with a friend from my old Hoboken bar crowd and mentioned that I had to mow my lawn the next day. She laughed and said that I was probably the only person she knew who had a lawn big enough to mow. And there was probably only one other person who had any grass to begin with.
Of course, bragging about my massive one-eigth acre stretch of land does not actually get the work done. That requires me hauling my push mower (yes, I am becoming a luddite) out to walk around in increasingly shrinking circles that never quite line up right in order to catch all stray blades. I actually do enjoy it on some primitive manly level, but my backwards technological outlook makes it a priority to mow every week. When you skip it for a month, that push mower basically shakes a metaphorical fist at me as it has to work one foot at a time.
Nevertheless, yesterday I managed to unevenly shave the front yard, rip out several pounds of ivy intent on tearing apart our brick steps, and trim the bottom half of an evergreen with some sort of grudge against our driveway. I just hope I’m not going overboard as some sort of payback for my Mom always stopping me from really going to town on the trees and bushes around the house. That’s right, I’m doing things my way, baby. This is my house and my rules, and the glasses get put in the cabinet I want them in, and the ugly trees get removed when I don’t want them, and the walls get painted whatever color I damn well please…
Assuming Lisa says it’s okay.