The Weed Man

The weed man came today. Not that kind of weed man. The other kind; the kind that has to do with your yard.

This morning, while we were sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast, I noticed a man wandering around our front yard. Not wanting to get the kids all riled up (they would've wanted to go outside and see what the man was doing and I wasn't quite ready to be seen by anyone other than close family, not to mention the fact that I had a mouthful of Grape-Nuts, and you know how long it takes to get that chewed and swallowed, then out of your teeth before you can actually open your mouth and talk to someone), I decided to casually look through the front window and see what was happening. A man wandering aimlessly in our yard is slightly unnerving, so I also didn't want to seem alarmed.

That's when I saw the white car. Big green letters spelled Weed Man on the passenger side door. He was surveying our yard, taking notes, and shaking his head. And I was ready to shuffle the kids upstairs and not answer the door. Neighborhood, door-to-door solicitors. I don't like them. At all. I understand they have a job to do, but it was 8:30 in the a.m. It's not a good time. Had it been Noon, it still wouldn't have been a good time. Salesfolks who come to my door are only met by me and my half-paid attention, and two monkey children clamoring to get out of the door and run like wild banshees and do something they shouldn't do, while my attention is so very clearly averted. And my manner with the roaming sales pitch people is always the same: curt with a hint of forced kindness. At 8:30, it wasn't going to be any different.

Surprises of all surprises, the doorbell didn't ring. The Weed Man left without saying a word, and I was able to move on and get the kiddies ready for their morning Welcome to Summertime party at a friend's house.

When we returned home at 12:30, after an exciting morning of jump and slide water play and ice cream and treats and lots of fun with preschool pals, I tried to quickly shuffle the kids and our gear inside, and move in the direction of nap time. Heath had other plans and said he wanted to sit on the front porch and wait for the recycling truck. He opened the door and squealed, Mommy, it's a package!

It was a package from the Weed Man. Not that kind of package. It was the kind of package that details the type of services the Weed Man performs on yards. Heath sat down on the floor and examined the lengthy paperwork. Not only was it a list of services, it was also essentially a yard critique, a list of landscaping grievances, if you will.

I tried to be mature about it and see it for what it was, a helpful list of the invasive weeds and grass-types (clover, moss) that are taking over our healthy green lawn. But I had a silly moment of feeling somewhat judged. I wanted to call and tell the Weed Man that we are very busy and doing the best we can, and we really are working very hard on making changes to our great potential of a yard. And then I remembered that he didn't ring my doorbell and trouble me this morning. That's nice. He's just drumming up business and letting us know he could help.

So I quickly softened about the Weed Man's approach and read his plan of attack for our particular yard.

1) Hire the Weed Man.
2) Have patience--3, 5, 8 years to improve.
3) Stick to the process.

Dude, tell me something I don't know.

On a different note, we've experienced Netflix Debacle #2. I failed to change the queue order to continue on with It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. D'oh! Very disappointed. Guess what we got instead? Weeds. Yep. And it's not the yard kind of weeds. It's the other kind.