June15
Last year – or perhaps it was two years ago – I decided that my house looked like a serial killer lived here. Not just a serial killer’s GIRLFRIEND (I heart you, Dexter), but a reclusive serial killer who probably chopped up hookers to make light fixtures out of their boobs.
The overgrown shrubbery had practically obscured all the windows in the front and I intended to remove them. All 958 of them.
I’d bought myself a pickax and a number of loppers capable of removing my fingers with a quick motion and set to work. I did manage to remove a few of the bushes myself before I paid the neighbor kid to remove the rest. When I’d started the process, see, I hadn’t expected that the early landscapers would plant so many fucking bushes atop each other.
But they did. Thanks, old landscapers.
After my neighbor was off spending the check I wrote him on a new iPod, I surveyed my lawn. Clearly something had to go in the gigantic trench the bushes had left behind. But…what? I’m no arborist or botanist and frankly, by that point, I’d rather have gouged out my eyeball with my pickax than replant some.
I made mention of this requirement to The Daver.
Me: “It looks like we’ve dug a foxhole in our front yard.”
The Daver: “Yep.”
Me: “Like any moment, World War II vets are going to pour into the holes and start shooting at the neighbor’s dogs.”
The Daver: “Yep.”
Me: “Or maybe a moat.”
The Daver: “Yep.”
Me: “But it can’t be a moat without a fire-breathing dragon and some cannons. Can we get a fire-breathing dragon?”
The Daver (not even looking up from his work): “Nope.”
Me: “Well, I need to replant some shit in there.”
The Daver: “Yep.”
Me: “Maybe some of those plants that eat people.”
The Daver: “Nope.”
Me: “Okay, then what?”
The Daver: “That’s your job to figure out.”
Me: “I hate planning.”
The Daver (now looking up, exasperated): “You need to sit down, figure out what will grow in there, the supplies you’ll need to install them, the places you can purchase these plants, and how long it will take you to put them in. I want an itemized list.”
Me: “Hrms. Maybe I can put the old, dead bushes back.”
The Daver: “Nope.”
Me (flicking off the back of his head): “Bite me.”
Asking me for an itemized list, cross-indexed and color-coded is a lot like asking me to turn into a bullfrog. Much as you might like it, it just ain’t gonna happen.
So my foxhole sat through the winter, sadly unoccupied by any roving WWII vets or fire-breathing dragons.
This spring, rather than broach the subject again, I simply went to Lowe’s and bought a bunch of flowering shrubs, giggling because the term “flowering shrub” sounds like a wicked STD.
Feeling particularly eye of the motherfucking tiger, I planted them a couple of weeks ago. And when I did, I realized there was a conspiracy afoot.
I needed to buy dirt.
Let me say that again: I needed to buy DIRT. Somehow the shit manages to find it’s way into my carpets and all over my children, and yet, I had to go spend real dollar bills on DIRT. In fact, I needed to purchase a substantial amount of dirt. Clearly, this was The Man keeping us (me) down.
It was also bullshit.
I haven’t exactly BOUGHT the dirt yet, which means I now have what appears to be a foxhole with shrubs growing out of it. I suppose the roving WWII vets will be pleased that their foxhole has been decorated with some fancy new shrubs.
Even with the occasional rain of bullets from down below, I’m certain my neighbors are thrilled that it no longer looks like a serial killer resides here.
Probably.
—————
Who wants to come over and fill in my foxhole for with me?
