And it hates me back. I have proof: coming up in a few days will be the fifth anniversary of the time I went in cardiac arrest mowing my Mom's lawn. I know, I'm damn lucky to have come through it at all, let alone come through it with flying colors. Cardiac arrest outside a hospital, that's about a 4% survival rate.
But still, isn't that God's way of telling me to not mow grass?
I had to do some remedial work in the yard today. I didn't have the girls, so no excuse there. It was not raining, so I fought the jungle.
I knocked down weeds with the string trimmer until I ran out of gas for it. Then I took my chainsaw to some low-hanging branches that make mowing even worse than mowing intrinsically is. These branches didn't seem like much on the tree, but one the ground, they ended up having a lot of biomass.
It was a pain in the ass getting them wrestled to the curb in trash cans, too.
Then I mowed, sprayed weed killer to try and keep from having to do so much trimmer work next time.
Three and a half hours of nasty, hot, back injuring work and my yard is still an eyesore.
For real, my next house needs to be a condo. I either need to be on a socioeconomic level to hire a lawn boy or I need to live in a place that has no yard. That or have my yard paved.
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