They cropped up overnight. Literally. One day they weren't there, and the next...there they were, little yellow flags stuck all over our lawn, indicating the gas lines from the street into our house and lamp post.
I had no idea they were even there until Tim called the other day on his way to work, asking me if I knew anything about them.
Perplexed, I rushed to the window, and sure enough, there they were, along with spray-painted yellow lines that had not been there the day before. Actually, they had not been there the evening before when Tim got home from work. So, sometime overnight, our lawn had mysteriously sprouted these nasty yellow indicators.
Uh oh. This could not be good. I looked to see if the infestation had spread to any of the other yards on the block, but we were the only one. Great, and I had garden people coming to plant some flowers within the next couple of days. Why, oh why, were they picking on us? And, more importantly, who was behind this dastardly deed?
Whoever it was knew they were not going to receive a warm welcome, as evidenced by the fact that they had snuck about in the dead of night, too cowardly to show their faces in the light of day.
Worried about how much of our front yard we were going to lose (Hey, it may not be much more than an intricate network of weeds, but they're our weeds), I decided to investigate.
Digging in my files for our last bill, I looked to see if there had been some sort of notification that I missed warning they were going to make my life a misery for the foreseeable future. But there was not so much as a word from those spineless jellyfish known as the gas company.
Okay, so I would have to broaden my search. I got onto the website, looking for news of any upcoming projects planned for our neighborhood. Once again though, I came up empty. So. They wanted to play it that way? Fine. Two could play that game, and I am not without resources.
Everybody knows that any detective worth his salt always has a snitch. Didn't Starsky and Hutch have Huggy Bear? Well, I have not one, but two neighbors who make Huggy Bear look like a mere cub. I knew that if anybody had the 411 on the yellow flags, it would be one of them. I would have been willing to bet that when the craven sneaks had slipped in during the dead of night to carry out their nefarious scheme, at least one of the two had seen and possibility interrogated the perpetrators.
After all, they were the best at ferreting out details. I'm pretty sure Ian Fleming used them for a role model when he created his 007 character, and I'm almost positive Woodward and Bernstein used them to conduct some covert operations on the whole Watergate scandal.
So, over the course of the next day or two, I struck up casual conversations with my sources and worked the yellow flags into the conversation. Shockingly, I came up dry. Even they, as good as they are, knew nothing about the flags.
Reeling from the shock of the two of them coming up empty (Had the world stopped spinning on its axis? Were pigs suddenly flying?) I began to consider other possibilities such as Martians, Leprechauns or Fairies. Surely this had to be the work of supernatural beings if my two neighbors hadn't seen or heard a thing.
Maybe, instead of indicating gaslines, the stripes and flags were really marking a landing strip for an otherworldly invasion. Hey, this could be the new Area 51. I wondered if I should look into a line of ET shirts and coffee mugs. I could make a fortune!
Or maybe these were the new, updated version of crop circles. New technology is constantly making things smaller. If personal computers no longer fill an entire room, maybe the little green men decided their mysterious markings no longer needed to fill an entire field. Yeah. I could be onto something here.
Before I could fully explore my new theories though, the mystery resolved itself.
Tim had been urging me to call the gas company directly and ask them what was going on, but, subscribing to his motto that it is better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, I put the call off until after the gardening people put in my spring flowers (so I'm a little behind this year. That's okay, we'll celebrate Christmas in February to make up for it).
When the plant people arrived, I called their attention to the flags, explaining that I had no idea why they were there. The woman just laughed and told me she knew why they were there, because she was the one to call and tell the gas company they were going to be digging around in our yard.
Mystery solved. And yet, that left me with a new mystery altogether, which was this: exactly how deep did they need to dig to plant a few petunias?
Showing posts with label yard. Show all posts
Showing posts with label yard. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Friday, May 11, 2007
The Lawn, Part 2
As all the neighbors know, I hate yard work. I mean, really hate it. I would rather have a root canal then putter around in the garden. The first sign of spring on our block is not the robin, swooping down to gobble up a fat, juicy worm for breakfast, it is a truck pulling up to our house and dropping off men with power equipment.
Unfortunately, this year spring was delayed due to the fact that I fired the lawn company from last year and couldn't find a replacement right away. Also unfortunate was the fact that the grass and bushes did not cooperate with this schedule. They began to grow. And grow. And grow.
I was quite happy to ignore "the jungle" as our yard was affectionately becoming known in the neighborhood, but Tim cracked under the pressure and was threatening to buy a mower and actually use it. Apparently, the last straw was when he had to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find his way from the house to the car. Wimp.
Even more unfortunate (for me) is that Tim has a bad back and, for the past week, the flu. (Okay, it was no party for him either, but let's focus on what is important here---me breaking a sweat and getting dirty). There was no hope for it. He was not falling for "let's worry about it tomorrow" ----again. (Hey, it worked for Scarlet, and we do live in the south.) I would have to mow the lawn.
I tried to be brave. Really, I did. I picked out a cute little red push mower and convinced myself that it would be good exercise. It might even be fun. I'd put on my ipod and be like one of those people you see in the commercials who are so happy to be working in their yard that they cannot stop themselves from breaking into song and dance.
I even had a guy flirt with me while I was checking out. He asked me if I was a former model (former? A swing and a miss). He also apparently missed the sarcasm dripping from my voice when I told him how clever he was to have noticed. I, however, did not miss the look of incredulity on his face or the amazement in his voice when he said, "Really?" (I might have been less insulted if he had been a buff twenty-something, but since it looked like many long, hard years had passed since this man could even spell buff.....strike two!)
Okay, so this was turning out to be more like one of those commercials where the people have constipation or hemorroids and are not quite as happy or inclined to dance.
I shook it off though, determined to get back to my "happy place". The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day to be outdoors, and it would take me no time at all to zip around the yard with my little mower since I didn't have to worry about filling it with gas or plugging it in or whatever else one does with those big he-man mowers. Maybe I could work up a small jig after all.
Then again, maybe not. Eagerly, I removed the mower from the car and set it on the nearest patch of grass. I pushed. It pushed back. Hmm. Maybe the grass was too high here. I moved it to a less dense spot where the grass was only up to my knees. I pushed again, really putting my back into it...and got about six inches before it refused to budge. Okay...maybe it needed some WD-40 to get it moving. After all, it was new and hadn't been broken in yet.
Half an hour and half a can later, I had mowed a grand total of about one square foot of lawn. Ten minutes and ten or more curses after that, I was eying the hedge clippers and wondering if it wouldn't be less painful to just cut the grass by hand.
Needless to say, the neighbors were enjoying all this immensly. I think they were taking bets on exactly when I was going to snap and go after the mower with the clippers, sort of like a Friday the Thirteenth sequel, only with Ray-bans instead of a hockey mask.
Finally, in total desperation, I pulled the mower instead of pushing it. And (can you hear the chorus of angels singing "Halleluia"?) it actually cut the grass! Perhaps someone might have shared that pertinent jewel of information a wee bit sooner? Say, before I had my stroke?
Two hours and many, many blisters later, I was passing the mower over the last patch of grass/demon weeds from the very bowels of the underworld that refuse to bend, break or die no matter how many times you cut/ slash/ rip out or stomp on when it happened....Spring arrived in our neighborhood, or at least an estimate of spring with the promise to return three days later.
Needless to say, the mower has been retired and we signed a contract that very day to make sure I never have to repeat the whole horrible experience ever again. I have already made the appointment for the root canal instead.
Unfortunately, this year spring was delayed due to the fact that I fired the lawn company from last year and couldn't find a replacement right away. Also unfortunate was the fact that the grass and bushes did not cooperate with this schedule. They began to grow. And grow. And grow.
I was quite happy to ignore "the jungle" as our yard was affectionately becoming known in the neighborhood, but Tim cracked under the pressure and was threatening to buy a mower and actually use it. Apparently, the last straw was when he had to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find his way from the house to the car. Wimp.
Even more unfortunate (for me) is that Tim has a bad back and, for the past week, the flu. (Okay, it was no party for him either, but let's focus on what is important here---me breaking a sweat and getting dirty). There was no hope for it. He was not falling for "let's worry about it tomorrow" ----again. (Hey, it worked for Scarlet, and we do live in the south.) I would have to mow the lawn.
I tried to be brave. Really, I did. I picked out a cute little red push mower and convinced myself that it would be good exercise. It might even be fun. I'd put on my ipod and be like one of those people you see in the commercials who are so happy to be working in their yard that they cannot stop themselves from breaking into song and dance.
I even had a guy flirt with me while I was checking out. He asked me if I was a former model (former? A swing and a miss). He also apparently missed the sarcasm dripping from my voice when I told him how clever he was to have noticed. I, however, did not miss the look of incredulity on his face or the amazement in his voice when he said, "Really?" (I might have been less insulted if he had been a buff twenty-something, but since it looked like many long, hard years had passed since this man could even spell buff.....strike two!)
Okay, so this was turning out to be more like one of those commercials where the people have constipation or hemorroids and are not quite as happy or inclined to dance.
I shook it off though, determined to get back to my "happy place". The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day to be outdoors, and it would take me no time at all to zip around the yard with my little mower since I didn't have to worry about filling it with gas or plugging it in or whatever else one does with those big he-man mowers. Maybe I could work up a small jig after all.
Then again, maybe not. Eagerly, I removed the mower from the car and set it on the nearest patch of grass. I pushed. It pushed back. Hmm. Maybe the grass was too high here. I moved it to a less dense spot where the grass was only up to my knees. I pushed again, really putting my back into it...and got about six inches before it refused to budge. Okay...maybe it needed some WD-40 to get it moving. After all, it was new and hadn't been broken in yet.
Half an hour and half a can later, I had mowed a grand total of about one square foot of lawn. Ten minutes and ten or more curses after that, I was eying the hedge clippers and wondering if it wouldn't be less painful to just cut the grass by hand.
Needless to say, the neighbors were enjoying all this immensly. I think they were taking bets on exactly when I was going to snap and go after the mower with the clippers, sort of like a Friday the Thirteenth sequel, only with Ray-bans instead of a hockey mask.
Finally, in total desperation, I pulled the mower instead of pushing it. And (can you hear the chorus of angels singing "Halleluia"?) it actually cut the grass! Perhaps someone might have shared that pertinent jewel of information a wee bit sooner? Say, before I had my stroke?
Two hours and many, many blisters later, I was passing the mower over the last patch of grass/demon weeds from the very bowels of the underworld that refuse to bend, break or die no matter how many times you cut/ slash/ rip out or stomp on when it happened....Spring arrived in our neighborhood, or at least an estimate of spring with the promise to return three days later.
Needless to say, the mower has been retired and we signed a contract that very day to make sure I never have to repeat the whole horrible experience ever again. I have already made the appointment for the root canal instead.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
The Lawn
Getting someone to mow your lawn is like applying for a job. You scour the paper and the internet for some leads, you make a dozen or so phone calls (leaving increasingly desperate voicemails as your grass begins to obscure the second story windows), and then you sit by the phone and wait for someone, anyone, to please return your call.
Finally, the phone rings. You look at the caller ID. It is a lawn service. Your heart rate speeds up, your palms begin to sweat. Could this be your lucky day? Is it actually one of the companies calling you back, or have you begun to hallucinate, high on the smell of uncut grass and dandelion fluff? With bated breath, you answer the phone. Today is your lucky day! They agree to come out...and give you an estimate.
Before you get too excited though, there is the small matter of references.....yours, not theirs. How did you hear about them? Do you personally know any of their other clients? Who was doing your lawn before? What is your shoe size, your mother's maiden name, your first childhood pet?
Crossing your fingers, you try to bluff your way through. Was this the first place you called or the tenth? Were they the ones from your internet search that had they dancing grubs on their site, or were they the company with the biggest ad in the phone book? Maybe they are the ones whose truck you chased through the neighborhood trying to get the number off the side, causing pedestrians to leap into nearby hedges for safety. Who cares. You just need someone, anyone to cut your grass before the county puts up a condemned sign in your front yard and the neighbors show up at your door with torches and pitchforks.
Good news. They agree to come out... and give you an estimate...within the next five to seven days. Having successfully passing the initial job interview, you heave a sigh of relief, which quickly turns to a groan of trepidation. Like choosing an outfit for the callback interview (Blouse or knit top? Skirt or pants?), you begin to critically assess your yard. Do the bushes need trimming? Do the flowers need plant food? Do the beds need weeding? Should you try to impress them with your high standards of a well-manicured yard, or make them pity you for having to hack your way through a jungle each night to reach your front door?
Meanwhile, the grass continues to grow at an alarming rate. Small children and animals are in danger of being lost forever if they stray too far off the path. National Geographic camera crews show up scouting locations for their next prime time special.
Just when you are seriously considering either buying a goat or blacktopping the entire yard and calling it a day, someone finally shows up to give you an estimate. Of course, this is all done under the veil of secrecy. God forbid they would knock on your door and introduce themselves. You might actually want to talk to them. No, they park across the street, don caouflage gear and, with the stealth and skill of a Green Beret, they infiltrate the backyard, recording their findings in a top secret code with invisible ink, which they will promptly eat if discovered.
Ahh, but they haven't counted on our determination to hire them. We spot them as they sprint back to the safety of their truck. With escape mere seconds away, we apprehend them and force them to reveal their "eyes only" plans for our yard.
They offer, we counter. Schedules are consulted, numbers fly back and forth. Future plans for flowers, bushes, and shrubs are discussed. Dental, retirement and medical plans can not be far behind. Will they want childcare, reimbursement for travel expenses, a fully equipped gym and spa?
At last, a contract is agreed upon, and they make good with their escape, but not before we extract a promise that they will return to cut our grass....within the next five to seven days!
Finally, the phone rings. You look at the caller ID. It is a lawn service. Your heart rate speeds up, your palms begin to sweat. Could this be your lucky day? Is it actually one of the companies calling you back, or have you begun to hallucinate, high on the smell of uncut grass and dandelion fluff? With bated breath, you answer the phone. Today is your lucky day! They agree to come out...and give you an estimate.
Before you get too excited though, there is the small matter of references.....yours, not theirs. How did you hear about them? Do you personally know any of their other clients? Who was doing your lawn before? What is your shoe size, your mother's maiden name, your first childhood pet?
Crossing your fingers, you try to bluff your way through. Was this the first place you called or the tenth? Were they the ones from your internet search that had they dancing grubs on their site, or were they the company with the biggest ad in the phone book? Maybe they are the ones whose truck you chased through the neighborhood trying to get the number off the side, causing pedestrians to leap into nearby hedges for safety. Who cares. You just need someone, anyone to cut your grass before the county puts up a condemned sign in your front yard and the neighbors show up at your door with torches and pitchforks.
Good news. They agree to come out... and give you an estimate...within the next five to seven days. Having successfully passing the initial job interview, you heave a sigh of relief, which quickly turns to a groan of trepidation. Like choosing an outfit for the callback interview (Blouse or knit top? Skirt or pants?), you begin to critically assess your yard. Do the bushes need trimming? Do the flowers need plant food? Do the beds need weeding? Should you try to impress them with your high standards of a well-manicured yard, or make them pity you for having to hack your way through a jungle each night to reach your front door?
Meanwhile, the grass continues to grow at an alarming rate. Small children and animals are in danger of being lost forever if they stray too far off the path. National Geographic camera crews show up scouting locations for their next prime time special.
Just when you are seriously considering either buying a goat or blacktopping the entire yard and calling it a day, someone finally shows up to give you an estimate. Of course, this is all done under the veil of secrecy. God forbid they would knock on your door and introduce themselves. You might actually want to talk to them. No, they park across the street, don caouflage gear and, with the stealth and skill of a Green Beret, they infiltrate the backyard, recording their findings in a top secret code with invisible ink, which they will promptly eat if discovered.
Ahh, but they haven't counted on our determination to hire them. We spot them as they sprint back to the safety of their truck. With escape mere seconds away, we apprehend them and force them to reveal their "eyes only" plans for our yard.
They offer, we counter. Schedules are consulted, numbers fly back and forth. Future plans for flowers, bushes, and shrubs are discussed. Dental, retirement and medical plans can not be far behind. Will they want childcare, reimbursement for travel expenses, a fully equipped gym and spa?
At last, a contract is agreed upon, and they make good with their escape, but not before we extract a promise that they will return to cut our grass....within the next five to seven days!
Friday, April 13, 2007
Yard Work
My grandparents on both sides were quite the gardeners. Flowers, plants, fruits, vegetables; they grew it all. I, on the other hand, have been known to kill silk flowers, and my mother holds the record for fastest kill: a poinsetta plant left on the porch for fifteen minutes one Christmas eve. Apparently, this was one genetic trait that was not passed down. Prematurely gray hair, yes, green thumb, no.
So with spring in the air (actually manure from everyone else on the block putting down fresh mulch), I hired a service to do some yard work. They would supply the mulch, I would supply the flowers, and within a few short hours, we would have a beautiful yard right out of Better Homes and Gardens.
Eight thirty in the morning, a truck pulled up and dropped off thirty bags of mulch. By 8:45, three men were digging and weeding and scrubbing at the brick planters. I happily got in my car and went off to Home Depot to get my flowers, thinking of how easy this was going to be.
Not being able to tell a tulip from a petunia, I got a cart and looked around for someone who could give me some helpful advice. Unlike in the commercial, where customers are greeted by smiling workers who not only advise them, but actually help them build the additions onto their homes, I could only find one cashier who was hiding inside her glass booth and looked more like Grumpy or Sneezy than Happy.
So I set off into the jungle of plants and flowers on my own, hoping for the best. I sniffed, I touched, I read signs. I started loading up my cart with pretty flowers in colors that would match the house. Then, I stumbled across something I never expected to see...an employee. Quickly, I grabbed him before he could disappear back into the maze of carts and racks and begged for help. Would these plants survive both the cool spring and blistering hot summer?
How much water did they need and how often? More importantly, could they survive the family curse?
Ten minutes later, after I finished putting all those flowers back, I reloaded my cart with new flowers that didn't match the house as well, but had a better chance of survival. Ten minutes after that, I emptied them out of the cart onto a flatbed cart that would hold the amount of flowers I needed and would only take me one trip to the car. And ten minutes after that, I had a car that looked like a float in the Rose Parade, and clogged up my sinuses for the next two days.
Arriving home, I unloaded the car and discovered the men had moved on to the back yard. They had weeded the front within an inch of its life, yet left untouched some scraggly looking green things and one lone petunia from last year, as well as a totally dead shrub. I guess I wasn't clear about ripping out pretty much everything.
I brought the guy who seemed to be in charge up front and tried, despite the language barrier to explain to him (again) what I wanted done. He nodded very agreeably and quickly disposed of the offending matter while I separated the containers of flowers and arranged them in the flower beds. Hmmmm, I definitely needed more flowers. I had used up my entire haul and didn't have any left for the backyard.
Okay, back to the Home Deopot for more flowers. Load the cart, unload the cart. Load the car, unload the car. Hadn't I hired people so I wouldn't have to do any work?
Haul the flowers around the house to the back only to discover that I may have been a bit too clear about ripping things out because the one flower bed was missing the big, leafy plants that had been growing there for the past five years. Apparently they looked less healthy than the dead bush. Once more, the team leader nodded agreeably while I gestured, spoke slowly and used small words (I know that this does not help me understand another language any better when I am in a foreign country, but I was getting desperate. I even considered running inside and watching a few episodes of Dora the Explorer to see if she could help me).
In the end, I decided it was better for my blood pressure to give up and go back to the store for more flowers. Fifteen minutes later I returned to find that, thankfully, no more perfectly healthy plants had been ripped out. We were, however, missing a strip of grass that ran between one of the flower beds and the fence. That whole area was now one giant flower bed!!! I've seen less carnage in horror movies. This was way beyond Dora's abilities now.
Concerned for the remaining grass and our dogwood tree, I decided to keep a closer eye on the guy doing the weeding. A few minutes later, head guy wanted to show me how nice the planted flowers looked, so I followed him over to the flower bed I where I had spent a considerable amount of time painstakingly arranging the flowers in groups, according to color. Proudly, he pointed to where he had transfered the flowers into the bed, spreading them out in a widely random pattern, mixing and matching colors. He gave me the thumbs up sign and a broad smile, clearly pleased with his artistry.
Shockingly, he was surprised when I didn't hug him and shower him with praise.
Next year, I'm contacting a clairvoyant and seeing if I can channel either one of my grandparents for an afternoon.
So with spring in the air (actually manure from everyone else on the block putting down fresh mulch), I hired a service to do some yard work. They would supply the mulch, I would supply the flowers, and within a few short hours, we would have a beautiful yard right out of Better Homes and Gardens.
Eight thirty in the morning, a truck pulled up and dropped off thirty bags of mulch. By 8:45, three men were digging and weeding and scrubbing at the brick planters. I happily got in my car and went off to Home Depot to get my flowers, thinking of how easy this was going to be.
Not being able to tell a tulip from a petunia, I got a cart and looked around for someone who could give me some helpful advice. Unlike in the commercial, where customers are greeted by smiling workers who not only advise them, but actually help them build the additions onto their homes, I could only find one cashier who was hiding inside her glass booth and looked more like Grumpy or Sneezy than Happy.
So I set off into the jungle of plants and flowers on my own, hoping for the best. I sniffed, I touched, I read signs. I started loading up my cart with pretty flowers in colors that would match the house. Then, I stumbled across something I never expected to see...an employee. Quickly, I grabbed him before he could disappear back into the maze of carts and racks and begged for help. Would these plants survive both the cool spring and blistering hot summer?
How much water did they need and how often? More importantly, could they survive the family curse?
Ten minutes later, after I finished putting all those flowers back, I reloaded my cart with new flowers that didn't match the house as well, but had a better chance of survival. Ten minutes after that, I emptied them out of the cart onto a flatbed cart that would hold the amount of flowers I needed and would only take me one trip to the car. And ten minutes after that, I had a car that looked like a float in the Rose Parade, and clogged up my sinuses for the next two days.
Arriving home, I unloaded the car and discovered the men had moved on to the back yard. They had weeded the front within an inch of its life, yet left untouched some scraggly looking green things and one lone petunia from last year, as well as a totally dead shrub. I guess I wasn't clear about ripping out pretty much everything.
I brought the guy who seemed to be in charge up front and tried, despite the language barrier to explain to him (again) what I wanted done. He nodded very agreeably and quickly disposed of the offending matter while I separated the containers of flowers and arranged them in the flower beds. Hmmmm, I definitely needed more flowers. I had used up my entire haul and didn't have any left for the backyard.
Okay, back to the Home Deopot for more flowers. Load the cart, unload the cart. Load the car, unload the car. Hadn't I hired people so I wouldn't have to do any work?
Haul the flowers around the house to the back only to discover that I may have been a bit too clear about ripping things out because the one flower bed was missing the big, leafy plants that had been growing there for the past five years. Apparently they looked less healthy than the dead bush. Once more, the team leader nodded agreeably while I gestured, spoke slowly and used small words (I know that this does not help me understand another language any better when I am in a foreign country, but I was getting desperate. I even considered running inside and watching a few episodes of Dora the Explorer to see if she could help me).
In the end, I decided it was better for my blood pressure to give up and go back to the store for more flowers. Fifteen minutes later I returned to find that, thankfully, no more perfectly healthy plants had been ripped out. We were, however, missing a strip of grass that ran between one of the flower beds and the fence. That whole area was now one giant flower bed!!! I've seen less carnage in horror movies. This was way beyond Dora's abilities now.
Concerned for the remaining grass and our dogwood tree, I decided to keep a closer eye on the guy doing the weeding. A few minutes later, head guy wanted to show me how nice the planted flowers looked, so I followed him over to the flower bed I where I had spent a considerable amount of time painstakingly arranging the flowers in groups, according to color. Proudly, he pointed to where he had transfered the flowers into the bed, spreading them out in a widely random pattern, mixing and matching colors. He gave me the thumbs up sign and a broad smile, clearly pleased with his artistry.
Shockingly, he was surprised when I didn't hug him and shower him with praise.
Next year, I'm contacting a clairvoyant and seeing if I can channel either one of my grandparents for an afternoon.
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