dating & lawn care

Well, I’ve officially killed my lawn.

It started off with the best of intentions. As things often do. First the sprinkler system got all angry as apparently it wasn’t blown-out correctly last winter. Then there was the realization that I don’t care for mowing. These things together meant that by June I had Sad Grass. Which would be a great name for a band, and if you are currently in need of a great name for your band, you feel free to take that one, no charge.

So in one of those hasty moments of half-ass productiveness, I found a bag of what I AM CERTAIN was called “Weed & Feed” in my garage, which I took to mean that it would get rid of the weeds that were somehow surviving without water and it would feed the brown starving grass. I had about half a bag and roughly 5 minutes so I sprinkled it around what seemed like the worst parts of my front lawn and patted myself on the back for being the kind of woman that takes the time to do yard work before she goes for a 3pm Starbucks run. Or whatever I was doing. I don’t really remember, but Starbucks is always a fairly safe bet. Point was, I was a single woman and god damn it, I was keeping up with taking care of this house. I don’t need no freaking man.

A few days goes by and low and behold I have the most fascinating pattern of dead, crunchy grass. Almost as if my drunk pet monkey, which I don’t have but wouldn’t it be cool if I did, decided to just go hog wild, or rather drunk pet monkey wild, dancing around on the front lawn one night on a particularly potent bender with an open bag of something that kills everything it touches.

For the sake of this story, we will call that bag of something Weed & Feed.

Now, none of this would really bother me all that much—it’s not like I am running for Best Lawn in the HOA awards—if I wasn’t dating. Stay with me here, I’m going somewhere with this.

For the last year I have been an active, albeit begrudgingly, participant in the dating game, which for the sake of this story we will call Weed & Feed. Weed & Feed has it’s high points. I’ve met some really interesting men, had some fun times, and learned a lot. And when I say that I’ve learned a lot, that’s code for: I’ve been freaked out by shit I don’t even want to tell you, because no one should have to be subjected to the mass amount of BS that goes on in other people’s game of Weed & Feed.

In general, I have dated mainly divorced men and what I have learned from this is that ex-wives are crazy. Every last one of them. I know this because every divorced man has told me so. I would like to research further, but I am afraid that if I ask my own ex-husband, he will only confirm it, and then what? Well, I suppose then I will have to give him credit for being right and I’ll be damned if I am going to be nice to him, because after all, I am crazy.;)

There are three standard complaints regarding ex-wives: They withheld sex, they used sex as power, and they didn’t appreciate that a man needs to have sex often. Sure, there are other complaints. Apparently many of us ex-wives are clinically depressed. Some of us never truly showed affection or caring on any level. The vast majority of us blew through money like water. Mainly at Target, if I am understanding correctly. But, for the most part none of us put out. Like ever. Well, maybe once or twice if we had one or two kids, but that’s it.

Do I take issue with this constant thread of conversation? Sure. Does it matter? Not really. I got bigger problems. For crying out loud, I have a dead lawn.

Flash forward to, oh I don’t know, yesterday. When I found myself at the home of a man I went on a date with. (People, save it. There is nothing scandalous here—as we have already established, I am someone’s ex-wife, therefore I don’t have sex, I am clinically depressed, and I don’t show affection. I was only there to use him to take me to Target. Obviously.) In a long and complicated story of which the details are totally unnecessary to get the point I have promised you I will come to, this man….let’s call him Bruno (why not?), has purchased and moved into the house that his ex-wife owned and lived in since their divorce 5 years ago. It’s a lovely home and I think it’s nice that in this game of Weed & Feed, we all end up doing weird shit like buying our ex-wife’s house for the sake of these creatures we are trying to co-raise and share amicable gestures that pay respect to the time spent. I really do. Lord knows the ex and I have had to do some weird shit as well, and probably have more of it coming our direction. In bags, being sprinkled all over our lives by drunk pet monkeys.

In the grand tour I was taken on, I was shown the backyard. It sort of resembled mine, except it looked like someone at one point had actually enjoyed gardening, so rather than randomness of weeds growing everywhere, there were large garden beds that contained the massive amounts of weeds. Bruno says, and I’m paraphrasing, “Five years of neglect. I can’t believe she let it get so bad.” And that’s about where I wanted to die. To climb back into my car, drive back to my own weed infested yard and scream to the heavens IT’S FUCKING HARD, OKAY? MAYBE SHE WAS JUST REALLY FUCKING TIRED AND DIDN’T LIKE YARDWORK IN THE FIRST PLACE!

I didn’t of course. Because I’m a women, and in general, we don’t stick up for each other or have any sort of girl code, especially one that would alienate a possible male subject of interest.

So, now it’s not enough that I am doing my best to leave my crazy at home. To act like I have it all together and show that I am emotionally stable and totally ready for a commitment. Now I have to have a nice fucking lawn too? Because that’s a lot of stuff to keep up with. I was proud that I was managing to find babysitters and wash my hair on a regular basis, thinking I was putting a fairly nice foot forward in Weed & Feed and being a decent contender.

But if I have to start doing things like aerating and regular fertilizing, I quit. I’d rather stay home with my drunk pet monkey.

May as well start here.

It’s as good a place as any.

I am waiting on a boy to call. Or text. Or send flowers. Or a messenger bird. Or show up on my doorstep. Or make some sort of effort at communication. Something, anything. I do this a lot—waste away a day on a boy that doesn’t deserve me to give him the time of day, much less obtain the honor of being the bulk of it.

A year ago I sat at this very same desk, in this very same house. But I shared it with a man. The house, not the desk. Now I just share kids with him and a last name that I am so not changing again. He lives in an apartment on the other side of town. Last I checked he had a on-again/off-again time share on a single mother of three who apparently is a DJ for a living. When she is not spinning tracks (or whatever they do now) in a trashy motorcycle bar on the wrong side of town, she plays poker in a different trashy motorcycle bar on the wrong side of a nearby town. In my head she sits at a table wearing a trucker hat low covering gas station sunglasses that hide blood-shot eyes that sit just above where the Camel Menthol hangs out of her mouth. But that’s just what’s in my head. I’ve never actually been permitted to meet her. I have been told that her and I look a lot alike. And though I am sure she’s lovely, I take great offense to that. I’m not bitter about not being married anymore—it was my decision and for the most part, I think it was one of the better decisions I’ve made. I’m not even bitter about the new girlfriend—sure, I wish he could have made a slightly classier choice in the woman that would be spending lots of time with our offspring, but alas, not my call. And maybe them learning a lot about music and poker at a young age isn’t such a bad thing. I’m just surprised that the ex-husband—the one that didn’t want out, that swore to never get over me, that begged for another chance—is fairing a little better at this dating game than I am.

Maybe our expectations are just different. Maybe mine are too high.

Nah.

So, I wait. The boy may graduate to man and attempt contact at some point today. If he does, I hope it’s by telephone line, as I look like hell.