Christopher. Yesterday, for the third time the THIRD TIME THIS WEEK some good Samaritan stopped by and offered to cut our grass because they apparently think that you're dead or something. Of course they stop by in the morning, when I haven't yet showered and my head looks like a giant frizzy pouf ball, and ask this and I have to say from the crack in the door "Oh! No, no thanks. I LIKE MY YARD TO LOOK REDNECK."
I would do it myself but the boys would be drawn to the propeller like flies to a turd and it would end up a very gory mess and the yard still wouldn't be mowed. Plus I have never once mowed grass in my life. Ever. I'm sure that all of the Totally Empowered Grrrl Power women out there are rolling their eyes at this and if they are they can get over here and HELP ME MOW MY LAWN THEN.
The yard? It's gone to seed. To seed! Daryl Hannah has climbed one of the saplings in back in protest to our preeminent mowing. It's so bad that Ewan gets lost in it. Literally, he'll sit down and I've totally lost him. He thinks it's hysterical but IT IS NOT HYSTERICAL. He can barely walk in the backyard as it is anyway because of the giant sloping hill that the developer thought would make such an awesome backyard for kids to play in; now he literally rolls down the hill.
Our neighbors, including The Blonde next door, The Blonde who mows her nice level yard umpteen frillion times in one week just to make ours look especially scraggly, has now mowed her yard 1,247 times in the span of when you last mowed until now. And our neighbor across the street? The one who has approximately two square feet of lawn but insists on riding their super shiny riding lawnmower to mow it has mowed their lawn three times this week. You have reduced us to the role of That House on the street. Granted, we're not like the people on the street over who have over one thousand Virgin Marys in their yard (I am so not joking) or the lady at the other end of the neighborhood who uses her driveway for storage, or even the Handy Man Dude who stores all of his work stuff in front of his house and on his porch like a freaking redneck, no; we are the people whose own yard looks like it's reaching up to grab the roof of the house and drag it underground.
So please. Mow the grass. Don't make me chase greedy kids off my porch while wearing my pajama pants and a wife beater because they want $30 dollars to mow, the greedy little gold diggers. And don't say "Why didn't you pay them" and then act like I overreacted when I'm all "THAT IS THE STUPIDEST WASTE OF MONEY EVER."
I love you to death, you are the wind beneath my wings, I know you work hard (seriously internet, you have NO IDEA how hard this man works, so he deserves a little slack) which makes it difficult sometimes to cut the aforementioned grass, you're a wonderful father, blah, blah, but darling. CUT. THE. GRASS.
P.P.S. We really are not redneck. Seriously.