I Don't Care If I Never Get Back

Today is a day I have dreaded for some time now. Lawn day. Maybe I'd enjoy it more but I'm not 17 and Gabrielle Solis isn't my neighbor.

If you recall, I mowed two Thursdays ago. Since then, we've had a couple of pretty good rains. The grass has growth thick and tall.

Meriwether Lewis was going to help me navigate the back yard but he got lost in the tundra.

To get started, I cut a row around the fence; but since the mower was on the lowest setting, the wet grass kept killing the blade. I adjusted the wheels and made a couple of more loops around the yard. Obviously, the row closest to the fence was cut lower to the ground, sticking out like a sore thumb; but I wasn't willing to deal with the clumped, wet grass all morning just to make it even. So I wrote the more-manicured section off as a warning track on the make believe baseball field that is now my back yard.

To interject my own story, my mind falls back to sports analogies when it tries to distract itself. It reminds me of when life was one game after another and I could be less responsible.

So, a make believe baseball field it was. The porch became home and the rectangular yard formed a near perfect diamond. Buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks. I don't care if I never get back....

I had to argue with myself to weed eat against the fence. Couldn't convince myself that it was ivy at Wrigley Field.

I'm too American League.