Grace, Grit & Sarcasm

When I bought my house, I was excited about homeownership.

My own space. My own rules. No landlord. No one living above me. A place that was mine.

What I apparently failed to fully consider was that the house came attached to a corner lot.

A corner lot with grass.

So. Much. Grass. And Trees. Crab Apple Trees that I affectionately refer to as murder trees. Have you even encountered the thorns on one of those things?

I have officially reached the point in the summer where I hate my yard. I don’t mean that I’m mildly annoyed by it. I mean I look out the window and take its continued growth as a personal attack.

My yard is so big that I mow it on two separate days. That’s not lawn care. That’s a part-time job.

And mowing isn’t enough, of course.

Oh no.

First, you mow. Then you trim. Then you edge. Then you get out the leaf blower because God forbid three blades of grass remain on the sidewalk.

By the time I’m finished, the section I mowed two days ago is basically ready to be mowed again.

And Mother Nature has been especially helpful lately.

Humidity.

Rain.

Heat.

More humidity.

More rain.

Then a special little combination I like to call “Why Is the Air Touching Me?”

The grass, however, is thriving.

I am not.

Apparently, neither are the standards of our neighborhood, because we have a new village DPW manager who seems to believe he has been appointed president of an HOA.

One tiny problem:

WE DON’T HAVE AN HOA.

Nevertheless, pictures are reportedly being taken of yards considered “unkempt.”

My neighbor actually received a ticket for grass on his sidewalk.

While he was still mowing.

I have questions.

Was there a reasonable expectation that he stop mowing after every pass and immediately remove the grass clippings before continuing?

Should we now have a second person following behind us with a leaf blower like we’re a landscaping pit crew?

“She’s coming around the corner! EDGER READY! BLOWER READY! THERE’S A CLIPPING AT TWO O’CLOCK!”

Because apparently we’re not mowing lawns anymore. We’re competing for the cover of Better Homes & Gardens: Municipal Code Enforcement Edition.

Meanwhile, I work full time.

I’m also taking classes full time.

And somewhere in there, I’m supposed to sleep, eat, do laundry, maintain relationships, write this blog and apparently keep my lawn looking like Augusta National.

I am one humid afternoon and one passive-aggressive photograph of my lawn away from blowing a gasket.

And just when I finally sat down to write this post and enjoy a few peaceful minutes indoors, my dog started grumbling at me.

Not barking.

Grumbling**.**

Apparently, management has concerns about my performance here, too.

So now I’m being judged by the DPW outside and a furry middle manager inside.

Fantastic.

There was a time when I thought owning my own home represented independence, accomplishment and proof that I could build a life on my own.

And it still does.

But nobody tells you that independence sometimes looks like a sweaty woman in her 50s standing in the driveway holding a leaf blower, glaring at a piece of grass on the sidewalk and muttering words that would make her grandmother rise from the dead just to wash her mouth out with soap.

I still love my house.

I love sitting outside when the weather cooperates. I love having a place that’s mine. I’m proud that I bought it on my own.

But the yard?

The yard and I are currently in a toxic relationship.

It keeps demanding more from me, I keep threatening to leave, and yet every week I go right back out there.

Because apparently grass doesn’t care that I have a job, homework, responsibilities, or dreams.

It just keeps growing.

And if you’ll excuse me, I think I saw a blade of grass touching the sidewalk.

I’d better go take care of it before someone alerts the authorities.