I held my annual Battle of the Weeds today. Why, oh, why do those suckers keep coming
back year after year after year when I’ve spent a bloody fortune mixing up
batches of homemade weed killer in a pathetic attempt to go green? Maybe they were too insulted to die because I
used Sunlight instead of Dawn dish liquid.
The aroma of vinegar in my backyard is reminiscent of a fish and chip
truck on Water Street in good old St. John’s and my salt shakers are noticeably
low on content. If today’s effort doesn’t
result in the annihilation of those ugly, yellow-topped, bleep-bleep so and
so’s, I’m going to bring in the heavy artillery from Mr. Scott.
After viciously soaking the friggin’ weeds, I planted
some annuals to supplement the feeble display of colour from the perennials in
my garden. I don’t know what happened to
all those lovely bulbs I planted these past couple of years. Maybe the record number of days below -40C
and the 8 feet of snow we had last winter had something to do with it. Personally, I blame it all on the friggin’
weeds.
So, here I was, twerking away in the garden when my
trusty trowel sliced through the guts of a big, juicy earthworm. For a split second, I paused in semi-horror
as I watched the two pieces of worm wiggle and squirm before finally coming to
a full stop. Shrugging my shoulders, I
dug into the soil again and two more big worms appeared on the surface. I looked around and beheld an army of creepy
crawlies slithering around my feet, just waiting for the opportunity to avenge
their dead comrade. My overactive
imagination convinced my ears that I heard squeaky little worm voices calling
for an attack on the giantess with the big ass up in the air. I jumped out of there in a flash, ready to
utter a few choice expletives until I remembered that I am now a respectable
grandma with impressionable young minds to cultivate. Cursing is a no-no, even when alone.
It took a while to work up the courage to resume flower
planting. I didn’t see any more worms,
thank God, but then I started to wonder where they had gone. Maybe they’re holding a war council in the
cavernous underbelly of my garden.
They’re probably joining forces right now with the poison-soaked weeds
and plotting a joint assault on my weary bones.
When darkness falls, they’ll unite as one slimy unit and slowly slither
across the patio, wriggle in through the sliding door, creep up the stairs and
onto my bed…. OMG!!!! Hopefully, there’s a Walking Dead marathon on Netflix
tonight so I can stay wide awake, ready for the friggin’ weeds and the stinkin’
worms, trowel in hand!
