I Fought The Yard and the Yard Won

Once upon a time, my husband and I were very diligent about keeping our yard up. We have moved many times over the years and have always made sure our yard had a modicum of curb appeal, in case we ever had to sell. Well, I guess we are never planning to leave this home because we have done a sorry job of yard maintenance over the past four years. Our excuse is that we are hooked to our computers like a ball and chain and can't get outside long enough to accomplish anything. You'd think we'd hire someone, but you have to watch them like hawks to make sure they don't murder your azaleas. I keep thinking that if I have to supervise them, I might as well do it, but then I don't. A conundrum to be sure.

My men-folk were gone for the whole week. So, I took it upon myself to rehabilitate my yard. For several evenings, I tore myself away from my computer work and donned yard working clothes and put my hair in the requisite ponytail. I dragged the lawnmower all over the yard, weed-eated the weeds out of the cracks of the sidewalk, gave bushes a haircut, planted flowers in pots, and pulled weeds out of beds. Bugs, mainly mosquitoes, were attacking me for putting them out of their homes, but I forged on. I was so proud of my accomplishments. I even did this on Saturday evening when everyone else was going out to dinner and a movie. I dug into the weedy jungle under a large oak tree in the front yard. There were vines growing all through the mulch and weeds, weeds, and more weeds. I put on some gloves and began to excavate the gnarly invaders. When I stepped back all sweaty and dirty with an aching back to look at my yard, I was indeed proud. I had made a dent in the overgrown mess. I went inside, cleaned up, got a glass of wine and glowed in the knowledge that I had done good.

Alas, my friends, the yard was laughing at me. It had a secret. It had hurled upon me its most evil villains and I would soon realize its wrath. The next day I noticed a black spot on my elbow surrounded by an angry redness. I didn't know what to think about it. Was it a tick? Did a rock hit me while I was weed-eating? Hmmmm. Slowly, in the recesses of my mind, I began to recall some articles I had read long ago about spider bites. The pictures with those articles showed something very similar to what I was looking at on my arm. Also, there were clusters of red spots trailing along my forearms. Blasted! I had gotten into poison ivy and a brown recluse spider had gotten me! It was not pretty!

I have suffered dearly over the past week. My arms have been on fire and I had to get two shots in the bum to kick start some heavy duty anti-biotics and steroids into my system. I am very thankful to my friend, who is a doctor, for helping me so quickly after I discovered my battle injuries. My arm might have rotted and fallen off without her expertise. I'm not sure how I would have explained to my family upon arriving home to find me missing a limb. I'd have to explain to them, "Well, what had happened was..."

So, as I am typing this blog, my forearms still itch and I am constantly fighting the urge to rake my finely, manicured nails across them. The yard won and gave me scars to prove it. I'm thinking I might sit on the porch with a glass of sweet tea and just supervise others from now on. Although, if I have to supervise, I might as well do it myself! I think I see a weed...