Dr. StrangeLAWN or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

Spring is finally here so you know what that means; lawn care.  Out of all of the chores that I have to do, lawn care is my least favorite.  Actually, let me re-phrase that because least favorite implies that it is somehow enjoyable.  I fucking hate it.  All right, I said it, lets move on. Mowing, raking, pruning, feeding, weeding, the list is endless.  There isn’t enough time in the day or money in the bank to do all that is required to keep my lawn healthy. I raised two kids, sent them to college, and they didn’t require half of the attention and money that is necessary to have a nice lawn. 

Mowers revving, weed whackers buzzing, chain saws whining; for the past few weeks it has sounded like the Indy 500 has invaded my street. My neighbors have already started in on mulching, mowing, trimming and such while I haven’t even opened my shed to at least check to see if my trusty John Deere tractor, affectionately referred to as Buttermilk is even there!  Someone could have stolen it and replaced it with, God forbid, a push mower.  That would certainly be my demise.  Ah Buttermilk, my green and yellow stead with not one but two cup holders.  Which co-incidentally was the deciding factor in buying her in the first place.  Two cup holders mean two beers.  And, curiously enough, it takes two beers to finish mowing the lawn. My lack of lawn ambition doesn’t bode well with my Type A or in this case Type Gr neighbors.  I’m sure they are already preparing the annual petition to get me to move. Lucky for me I don’t respond to lawn shaming or peer pressure. 

This year I’ve decided that I will employ what I affectionately refer to as the “nuclear option.”  No, I’m not going to tear my lawn up and cover it with green concrete.  And neither will I let it grow fallow, allowing the grass to grow to knee height giving my house the creepy Addam’s Family look.  I’m going to hire a landscaper.  What?  You, Barry, hiring a landscaper?  Yes, sad but true, I’m going to <choke> pay someone to do all of the scut work that I loathe.  I mean if there is someone out there willing to spend their valuable time cutting, pruning, tilling, raking, weeding and feeding, far be it for me to deny them their pleasure.  My selection process for the landscaper will be very simple; if they don’t run away screaming in terror after they see my house, they’re hired.

Admittedly, I have pretty low standards when it comes to my lawn.  My minimum requirement is that it is some shade of green.  And that’s pretty broad.  Grass, crab grass, chickweed, smartweed, quick weed, I could care less.  If it’s green, it’s serene.