One Weed, Zero Dignity: The Yardwork Disaster

I went outside to pull one weed.

That is important to remember.

One. Weed.

It was growing beside the front steps, looking smug and disrespectful, and every time I walked past it I thought, I should really pull that.

So Saturday afternoon, armed with absolutely no plan whatsoever, I marched outside, grabbed the weed, and yanked.

The weed did not move.

I pulled harder.

Still nothing.

At this point, it had become personal.

I wrapped both hands around it, planted one foot against the garden border, and pulled with everything I had.

The weed suddenly surrendered.

I flew backward.

The weed flew forward.

A clump of dirt hit me directly in the face.

And somewhere across the street, a lawn mower stopped.

I looked up.

My neighbour, Dave, was watching me.

“You okay?”

“Yep.”

I was not okay.

I had dirt in my bra.

But the weed was dead, and victory has a price.

Unfortunately, while lying on the lawn reconsidering my choices, I noticed another weed.

Then another.

Twenty minutes later, I had somehow transformed from “person pulling one weed” into “woman angrily crawling through a flower bed muttering threats at vegetation.”

That’s when I found the garden hose.

I figured since I was already outside, I might as well water the flowers.

I turned on the tap.

Nothing happened.

I stared at the hose nozzle.

I squeezed it again.

Nothing.

Naturally, I held it directly in front of my face to investigate.

The nozzle exploded.

A concentrated blast of freezing water hit me squarely between the eyes.

I screamed.

The hose flew out of my hand and began whipping around the yard like an escaped python.

It sprayed the porch.

It sprayed the windows.

It sprayed Dave.

Dave was still across the street.

I don’t know how.

“SORRY!”

He wiped his glasses.

“Still okay?”

“NEVER BETTER.”

At this point, I was soaking wet, covered in mud, and emotionally committed to finishing yardwork I had never intended to start.

That’s when I decided to mow the lawn.

The mower started beautifully.

For approximately nine feet.

Then it stopped.

I restarted it.

Nine more feet.

Stopped.

Restart.

Stop.

Restart.

Stop.

By the fifth attempt, I was negotiating with it.

“Listen. I don’t know what you need from me, but we both want this over with.”

The mower remained silent.

I kicked one wheel.

This accomplished nothing except hurting my toe.

Eventually, I discovered the problem.

A stick.

One tiny stick had jammed underneath.

I removed it triumphantly, restarted the mower, and immediately ran over the hose.

There was a horrible THUNK-THUNK-THUNK.

I froze.

The mower froze.

The hose had entered a new phase of existence.

I stared at the wreckage.

Dave stared at the wreckage.

Neither of us spoke.

Finally he called over, “You know, some people hire someone for this.”

“GO AWAY, DAVE.”

Then I remembered the hedge trimmer.

This was my biggest mistake.

The hedge along the driveway had gotten a little unruly, and I figured trimming it would restore some dignity to the afternoon.

I carefully trimmed one side.

It looked fantastic.

So I trimmed the other side.

Slightly uneven.

I corrected it.

Now the first side looked taller.

I corrected that.

Now there was a hole.

I tried blending the hole.

There was now a larger hole.

Thirty minutes later, what had once been a beautiful hedge looked like it had been questioned aggressively by federal authorities.

I stepped backward.

“Oh no.”

Dave had abandoned his lawn mower entirely and was now sitting in a lawn chair.

Watching.

He had a drink.

I pointed the hedge trimmer at him.

“Don’t.”

He raised both hands.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking loudly.”

I decided the hedge was done.

Then I noticed a branch hanging from the little tree near the driveway.

Just one branch.

I grabbed the pruning shears.

Snip.

Perfect.

Then another branch looked uneven.

Snip.

Then another.

Snip.

I stepped back.

The tree looked weird.

So I cut another.

And another.

Eventually I realized I was no longer pruning.

I was giving a tree a nervous breakdown.

I put the shears down.

“No more decisions.”

That’s when the wheelbarrow tipped over.

I hadn’t touched it.

It simply fell.

Apparently even the equipment had lost faith in me.

A bag of mulch spilled across the driveway.

I stared at it.

The mulch stared back.

Dave shouted, “Want some help?”

“NO.”

“You sure?”

“I HAVE A SYSTEM.”

There was no system.

I got the broom.

While sweeping the mulch, I disturbed a wasp.

One wasp.

I don’t know whether you’ve ever been pursued by a single angry wasp, but apparently one is plenty.

I dropped the broom.

I ran.

The wasp followed.

I ran around the tree.

It followed.

I ran around the car.

Still there.

I sprinted across the lawn waving my arms and screaming, “WHY ARE YOU SO INVESTED IN THIS?!”

Dave fell out of his chair laughing.

Eventually the wasp lost interest.

I stood in the middle of the yard, panting.

My hair was wet.

My clothes were muddy.

My hedge had a bald spot.

My hose was deceased.

My tree looked concerned.

There was mulch everywhere.

And I had somehow lost one gardening glove.

I looked down.

The original weed—the one that had started everything—was lying beside my foot.

I picked it up.

Then I noticed something.

A tiny piece of root was still sticking out of the ground.

I stared at it.

It stared at me.

“No.”

I went inside.

Ten minutes later, I was sitting on the couch with a drink when my phone buzzed.

It was a text from Dave.

Yard looks great.

Another message arrived.

Very open concept.

I blocked Dave.

And that is why the weed is still there.

It’s bigger now.

We have an understanding.

I don’t bother it.

It doesn’t make me do yardwork. 😂🌱🏡