I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth when Marvin picked up my Oprah magazine. ” ‘Oprah’s battle with food is over,’ ” he read. Then he said, “Food won.”
It was one of those terrible things he says that makes me laugh the entire time I am brushing my teeth, all the way into the bedroom, through the entire clothes-picking-out process, and on into half my makeup application. Yes, my handbasket to hell is ready. I know I am sitting at the right hand of Old Pitch.
My punishment, however, is that I must begin cutting back my monkey grass today. If anyone remembers that arduous task from last year, you will recall it really is a punishment. I do not know what Marquis de Sade decided we needed 950 feet of monkey grass in this front yard, and I do not know why we have the gardening tools of ancient man. Seriously, I have to go to the Smithsonian and borrow back our gardening tools from the exhibit.
The Smithsonian does not have any ancient man exhibits, does it?
I am certain there must be some high-falutin’ power tool that would cut my monkey grass back in half the time, but have I mentioned the part where I took off to Seattle like a millionaire and cannot gad off to Home Depot like I’m Paris Hilton and just buy whatever power tool I’d like? You know how you always see shots of her just buying any old gardening supply like she owns the world.
So once again I must go out there with baby scissors and clip clip clip for hours on end, while my forearms ache and I curse my very existence. I would just like to meet the yahoo who formed the thought, “Hey! How about 10 acres of monkey grass out there!” “How about we curve it into all sorts of odd shapes, then put uncomfortable wood chips you have to kneel into when you’re cutting it!”
That picture up there shows you about one fourth of our monkey grass. ONE FOURTH!
Really, I would. Just give me 10 minutes and my baby manicure scissors with this dink. I beg you.