"On Landscaping ... Or How A Puny Weed Wacker Attempted To Defeat Me"

Hi,

It's me, Kay.

I know there are some incredible landscapers in town who love to work in their yards, who find it an art form to design their surroundings, and, rightfully so, feel accomplished when their yards look a like a Monet painting. For me, however, I had landscapers. Past tense.

Now, in my soon-to-be-divorced life, I am the landscaper.

Think Jackson Pollock with power tools. Sure, I've mowed lawns before and watched my grandfather trim hedges. I was always curious about men's obsession with their lawns. It looked so easy to me — I never got the hype. Suddenly, I was going to learn.

Scene one: Empowerment. I bought my first weed wacker a few months ago. I could not wait to get it home, free it from its box, and chop, dice and slice away. "My very first lawn tool," I thought. "I own a weed wacker. That's right, I am strong, I am powerful, I can kill weeds, and I am one with my environment." At least that's how I started out.

Scene two: Bestowing Wisdom. "Girls, Mommy bought a weed whacker. Incredible right? Girls!?! Where are you? I want you to see Mommy make our yard look beautiful. It's important for you girls. You need to know how to use a weed wacker in life.” Silence. Neither daughter in sight — truly, a rare moment.

Scene Two: Excitement. So I took the weed wacker from its box, popped some of the parts in place and presto! I had put together my first piece of yard equipment. It was a Saturday. (In hindsight, that was probably not the best day to start this project. It seemed all my neighbors were outside, landscaping up a storm ... and then there was me.)

Scene Three: Confusion. I have my peace bandana on my head, some old jeans on, and cowgirl boots on my feet. I'm ready for battle. Think of it - 90 degrees, and I have on cowgirl boots and jeans. I know, right? I look as though I'm getting ready to go on a Harley ride, but that's just me. I put on my red garden gloves and pull the cord.

Nothing.

Pull again. Nothing. Reread the instructions 100 more times - still no luck. I look up, everyone on the street seems to be watching me as I struggle with that weed wacker in my driveway. I feel like a science experiment and they are all the scientists.

Pull again. Nothing! Suddenly two voices. Both my daughters yell out their windows, "Call daddy!!!!" No way.

People walking by my house suddenly came to a stop. Perspiration is running down my back in rivers; no one is helping me. I'm too proud to ask. I start signing, "I am woman, I am strong, and I can get this fri*#ing thing started."

Two hours, four pounds, and innumerable tears later, I grab that weed wacker by its puny little engine and say, "Today you won this battle, tomorrow I will win the war. You SOB! Be very afraid in the shed tonight. Be very afraid.”