The worms crawl in
Hubby and I spent our weekend toiling in the jumble of plants and dirt that we call our backyard. You see, our house was built in 1930 and while the former owners all took great care of the inside, they seemed to have just thrown whatever plants were discounted into our backyard without actually taking the time to figure out the best place to put them. We have plants growing under other plants, people, and random trees sprouting up throughout our lawn after the birds dropped the seeds.
For being in the city, we actually have a pretty big backyard. It's big enough for two dogs to run around and big enough for us to wince at the cost of re-landscaping it. It is still small enough, however, that Hubby actually uses a non-motorized push mower that he got for free from our neighbor's garage sale. (Between that and the Prius, we are sounding more and more environmentally conscious with every blog entry!)
So we spent the majority of our weekend transplanting things and trying to organize the yard a bit better. Well, Hubby spent the majority of the weekend transplanting things. I spent mine sitting on an overturned bucket, holding the garden hose and watering where he told me. I don't do dirt. I know, I'm such a girl. Growing up, my sister used to pick up worms and put them on the outdoor compressor of our central air-conditioning unit. In the summer sun, the compressor's metal was so hot that the worms would actually fry. While she would perfect her creepy-crawly torture tactics, I would spend my summer changing my outfit if one happened to get dirty and avoiding her setup on the air-conditioner compressor. Like I said, I don't do dirt -- or worms.
Actually, with a good pair of gardening gloves, I have no problem with the dirt or the bugs or the worms. But I tucker out easily because of health issues, especially in this heat. It's my genes; I blame them.
The rest of our weekend was spent showing off our (nonwrecked) car in hopes that someone would take pity on us and buy it. I feel like I should be wearing the classic polyester suit and gold wristwatch of a used car salesman as I try to talk up its the "reliability" and "great gas mileage."
I also get too attached to prospective buyers. I coo to Hubby that he/she "was so cute!" after they've taken their last look over the car and have driven away. I'm actually rooting for certain people to like and buy our car. But I also worry about angering other people wanting to look at it or not giving them a fair chance.
I'm not wormy enough for this car-selling gig.
For being in the city, we actually have a pretty big backyard. It's big enough for two dogs to run around and big enough for us to wince at the cost of re-landscaping it. It is still small enough, however, that Hubby actually uses a non-motorized push mower that he got for free from our neighbor's garage sale. (Between that and the Prius, we are sounding more and more environmentally conscious with every blog entry!)
So we spent the majority of our weekend transplanting things and trying to organize the yard a bit better. Well, Hubby spent the majority of the weekend transplanting things. I spent mine sitting on an overturned bucket, holding the garden hose and watering where he told me. I don't do dirt. I know, I'm such a girl. Growing up, my sister used to pick up worms and put them on the outdoor compressor of our central air-conditioning unit. In the summer sun, the compressor's metal was so hot that the worms would actually fry. While she would perfect her creepy-crawly torture tactics, I would spend my summer changing my outfit if one happened to get dirty and avoiding her setup on the air-conditioner compressor. Like I said, I don't do dirt -- or worms.
Actually, with a good pair of gardening gloves, I have no problem with the dirt or the bugs or the worms. But I tucker out easily because of health issues, especially in this heat. It's my genes; I blame them.
The rest of our weekend was spent showing off our (nonwrecked) car in hopes that someone would take pity on us and buy it. I feel like I should be wearing the classic polyester suit and gold wristwatch of a used car salesman as I try to talk up its the "reliability" and "great gas mileage."
I also get too attached to prospective buyers. I coo to Hubby that he/she "was so cute!" after they've taken their last look over the car and have driven away. I'm actually rooting for certain people to like and buy our car. But I also worry about angering other people wanting to look at it or not giving them a fair chance.
I'm not wormy enough for this car-selling gig.
posted by Kristen at 10:13 AM
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