I'm not one for doing any kind of yard work. If I had my way, I would concrete my yard and put down AstroTurf.
For me the best way to do yard work is to put on a hat and some old clothes and watch as someone else does it. Unfortunately, that can get pricey.
So once a week I mow the lawn. Sometimes I even weed eat. But that's it, which can be a problem because somehow I have some sort of plants and things growing all around my house.
A previous roommate of mine planted them against my better judgment. The only problem is I didn't lose them in the divorce, leaving me to take care of them.
I hear a lot of people complain about not being able to keep plants alive but I think they are trying too hard. Me, I'm begging for them to die.
When most people hear a frost is coming they cover their plants to keep them alive. I try to make sure there is nothing near mine so they get the full impact of the frost. Yet still they live.
So I do my best to take care of them. I have three bushes in the front of my house I try to take care of every spring -- I run them over with the mower as close to the ground as possible. You would think that would take care of them. But no, they grow back full every time.
I'm not sure what these plants are called but I call them "Cantkills." And they are great plants, too, because they grow in really full making it brutal to pull the weeds that always get in between and wrap around the stems. Yet, when I pull the weeds and stems the plants still live. Stupid Cantkills.
Also in front of my house, I have three rose bushes. I haven't touched these rose bushes in years, hoping that would take care of them. Despite my policy of ignoring the prickly bushes from hell, they continued to grow and grow until they were over six feet high and so wide it covered up the concrete walkway in front of my house.
I kept hoping nature would take its course and kill them or at least they would commit suicide. Instead, nature gives me huge rose buds every spring, summer and fall. Unless it is winter, I always have full rose bushes with beautiful, huge roses. It's awful.
Then something happened. Along with a fever and being light headed I decided it was time to take back my yard and trim the rose bush. I think this may be the Ebola virus.
So out came the old, rusted shears and my friend Pate came over with his and we starting chopping. I can tell you the song "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," is a lie. Every rose on my bushes has many thorns, some as big and as sharp as knives. I swear one went through my finger and came out the other side. And that was through a gardening glove.
Pate was cut by one of the thorns and lost about two units of blood. We thought about taking him to the emergency room but realized he probably wouldn't make it there before he bled out. Fortunately, through the help of a tourniquet, shaking of the hand and some properly placed curse words, he was able to survive.
We were troopers though. We chopped and chopped and chopped and chopped. I'm pretty sure for every branch I chopped two grew back in its place. I had scratches all over my arms and legs but every scratch just made me more determined to chop every branch I possibly could.
When all was said and done we cut over four feet off my bushes. Now all that is left is sticks and thorns. They look dead but I'm not that lucky. Everyone says that they will grow back in the spring and look great. If that's the case I guess I will have to take care of them. At least I have the winter to sharpen the mower blades.