Housework: August 2006 Archives

The human sprinkler

This week's column is an elaboration of the short post I made on Liam's annual checkup. I still have the bruise, FYI.

I also want to make a point about my kids; after one of my last columns, several people obviously unfamiliar with my kids and my website wrote and stated that not only were my kids brats, but that my family shouldn't be allowed within a ten mile radius of a commercial entity. I know that these people don't have children, because people with children usually exhibit better manners out of practice as little eyes are always watching them; and because they missed the fact that Liam had just received an allergy shot and we waited over an hour in a cramped pediatric waiting room which would make anyone batcrap insane. Next time I will bring them to YOUR HOUSE.
I love my boys and they're some of the best behaved and most compassionate children I've ever had the privilege of knowing. Thanks to everyone who wrote or commented to share their own grocery stories. A few of them made the egg fiasco seem EASY. You're totally welcome to borrow Liam's helmet.

Also! The yard! Mowed:

It's now thicker than the yards of our neighbors and Chris says this because he lets it grow to seed which I think is a crock of BS.

*EDITED to add: We did not pay a neighbor kid, much to Chris's chagrin. He actually went out into the yard by himself and mowed it. He also loudly protested the whole putting up the photos of the yard on the internet thing and offers his sincerest thanks to all of the men who wrote to back him up on the idea of paying a neighbor kid to do it from now on because that is "totally the way to go, Dana."

When the yard attacks


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.

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Dana asks: "Thanksgiving Traditions: Yours or Your Mother's?"