A Weed By Any Other Name Would Not Be Plucked

Sometime during the Easter get together I went to, I whined about the current economy and my lack-of-a-job situation. Friends who live in Inglewood (LA, for my non-Cali peeps) said they'd love it if I would do some yard work for them. They have busy careers and two kids, one of whom is 8 and requires nightly homework help, etc. They don't have time to pull weeds.

I've never been much of a gardener. I'd dig holes for plants my mom wanted to put in, or deadhead the pansies, but when sent out to "weed" I'd be finished fairly quickly. If something is pretty, I'm sure it's supposed to be there. And they're all so pretty. Karen and Panther (not her real name) assured me they had plenty of weeds and they needed to go as they'd "taken over the yard." P'shaw, I thought. How bad could it be? I've seen their yard. It's not that big and it's quite lovely. There's an archway entrance with a gorgeous bougainvillea growing over it, an orange tree, three planters, a few rose bushes, and various other plants that I couldn't name if you offered to pay me large sums of money. Seriously, I know roses and daisies, but everything else sort of slips my mind two minutes after you've identified it for me.

I actually said to them, and why they didn't burst out laughing in my face I don't know (well, I suppose it was because they feared I wouldn't show up), "That sounds like something I could do in a few hours. It wouldn't be worth it when you think of how much I'd spend in gas getting there and back." A few hours. I said that.

If I were to share their address (which I have no intention of doing) you could get a bird's eye view and see only the front yard. For some reason, the back yard just doesn't show up the way they took the pictures. The front yard is spotless. Somehow that added to my certainty that the back yard could not have been invaded by alien weeds to such an extent that they'd hire me to eradicate them. Obviously you can all tell that I was wrong. So, so wrong.

But hey, in case the employed or retired among you haven't noticed, it's the Depression Redux out there. And my friends actually thought it would take me two days to do this job, and I could just stay over (saving a long commute and gas), and I was very happy to accept. I just figured I'd need to do something else besides a little weeding to pass all that time. I'd laugh, but it would make muscles other than those in my hands (which are not happy about the typing) move, and that would hurt.

I wanted to get an early start on Thursday, but there'd been a shooting on the freeway the night before and the 101 was shut down. I Googled an alternate route and saw that taking the 118 to the 405 was the way to go. Everyone else did this, too. It should take an hour and 20 minutes to get to their house. It took two hours and 45 minutes. There was a moment, when I could see for miles ahead of me and the traffic was infinite, when I let go of my stress and started singing Que Sera, Sera in my head during the commercials on the radio.  Panther  texted me about getting into the house. I texted back. No, there was absolutely no danger in this (though, of course, still technically illegal), since I wasn't driving, just sitting still and waiting for that golden moment when we'd all move about a foot farther down the road. I also called into a radio station, trying for the $10,000. prize. Didn't win.

When I finally saw the back yard, I panicked (just a little). So much foliage. So, so much. Karen had left me photos of the plants to be spared, but -- if you'll remember my lack of natural ability in this area -- they all looked alike to me. One had yellow flowers. But then there were all these very tall plants with purplish leaves that had yellow flowers on top -- what about them? Turned out they were dandelions. I have never seen them that large. Ever. And here's another handy way to distinguish between a plant that someone wants to keep and a weed that must go: if it comes out easily, it's a plant, but if it holds on as if its roots desperately crave sweet and sour chicken for dinner, it's a weed.

I had a sort of plan in mind when I began. Attack the biggest weeds first (take out the leader and the pack will fear you), then the medium ones, then finally the small stuff in the cracks between the bricks. Alas, my 50 year old body had other ideas. I could only bend over or squat down, dig at roots, and pull for all I was worth so many times in a row before I had to kneel down and dig at medium or small varmints. And yes, they were alive. Or, rather, they were the un-dead. I would cleanse a section of all dandelions, turn my back, and upon a second look find that -- some. had. come. back.

I'm a tad obsessive about work. When I have something to do I like to keep at it till it's done. It's why I could get ten appraisals done in a day back in the '80s. If I ate anything at all, it was from a drive-thru and I consumed it while on my way to the next appointment. Knowing this about myself, I'd confidently stated that I could finish the yard in one day. When I stopped for 15 minutes to drink my Slimfast lunch, I knew that was a fantasy that would not be fulfilled (story of my life). My friend Kathy* texted me to ask how I was doing and I told her that the yard was several football fields long and I had to go before my parts seized and I could no longer move.

I tried listening to my iPod while I worked (so much more melodic than my off-key whistling would be), but no matter how I tried to tuck the earbud cord in somewhere, it would come loose and tangle with the weeds I picked up or the rake or something. I spent an hour fighting it, then decided it was impossible and simply sang to myself (they do have neighbors, after all). Annoyingly, after pricking myself on the rose bush I couldn't get "every rose has its thorns" out of my head.

I wondered if Karen was worried about the flowers she'd paid good money for and planted with such care. As I knocked the dirt off the roots of a dandelion before throwing it at the trash heap, I wondered if she was sitting in her office thinking, "Does she even know to knock the dirt off the roots, or will I need to buy more topsoil when she's done?" Karen never expressed any doubts or fears, but that's the way my brain works. At one point I talked to her on the phone and found out that there wasn't one plant near the blackberries. "But, the pretty ground cover with the orange flowers is a weed? And the purple ones next to them? Weeds? How can that be?" Karen said, "They will turn into a monster with sticky burrs. They only look good now to fool you, so you'll let them grow." The garden is a microcosm of life, it seems.

If only I hadn't been so pathetically weak. At five o'clock I had to stop. I didn't want to. They weren't even home from work yet, and there was plenty of sunlight left to the day. I blame my thighs. They said, "Listen, chickee, you normally don't do more than 15 - 20 squats a day. You passed a thousand hours ago and we need to rest!" My back agreed and my forearms (who knew they could hurt?) sealed the decision. I'd filled one yard waste dumpster and an additional big, black garbage bag. I went inside, put a piece of clothing down on the couch to protect it from my dirty clothes, and passed out in a sitting upright position.

Panther and Karen made a wonderful dinner of chicken marinated in lemon and thyme (freshly picked from the garden -- I know an herb when I see one, so it was safe), salad greens with pears and prosciutto, and bread. Very yummy. I was so tired that going to bed seemed like an excellent idea in lieu of dessert, but I refused to give in to such weakness. One day of physical labor wasn't going to beat me. Totally.

Karen had stuff to do to get ready for a retreat she was planning for the weekend, and Panther and I told ghost stories and then watched them on TV. There's a show on the Travel Channel about these guys who go to haunted places and try to find proof of ghosts. It's very entertaining, from the overly dramatic host to the too brave cameraman and the easily frightened second cameraman. I don't need to be convinced that ghosts exist, having experienced them personally, but the show is a hoot and kind of creepy at the same time. I stayed awake as long as I could, then Panther finally took pity and we all went to sleep.

I'd forgotten the weather forecast. I had been so sure that I could do the yard work in one day, and spend the next one on indoor chores, that I spaced out completely on the rain. But it did rain, starting sometime during the night. Since Karen and Panther have gutters and leaders on their house (as John doesn't), I wasn't woken up by water smashing down right outside my window (as I am at home). Their daughter asked me, before leaving for school, how I was going to work in the garden in the rain. I told her I'd get wet, but it'd be "easier" because the rain would loosen the roots. Really, why do I speak? Will I ever learn?

Yes, some of the weeds did come up with a little less fight, that's true. Others were like, "Rain? You think I care about rain?! Come and get me, bitch!" And, either way, I was no longer shaking dirt off the roots. I was taking more time on each and every pull to deal with the mud. As it rained lightly I not only became wet and cold, but as covered in the mud as the roots I was trying to scrape off. But that was okay! I was getting it done! In hindsight, I wish I'd worked on one area at a time, completing it to perfection. But I'd get sore in a position and in order to ease my muscles I'd attack something else, somewhere else. Who knows why. Certainly not me. I was the wayward gardener.

When it started to pour, I hunched over and muttered, "So what, I'm already wet," and kept on weeding. When the thunder began I worked faster (you don't even want to know what my thighs had to say about that), but I was far from done and so not stopping. It's California. Thunder is rare and usually we just get a couple of rumbles. When I saw the first flash of lightning I believe I said out loud, "Okay, right, I'm not an idiot. I'm done."

I had to leave my mud-covered sneakers outside the door and my clothes in a heap just inside the door, so as not to drip mud throughout the house as I went to the shower.  Panther called a couple of times, and when I was dressed I called her back to see what she wanted. I guess my work ethic had her worried that I might be insane enough to still be out in the weather, risking death and an increase in her home owner's insurance. No, just kidding. About the insurance. She truly was a little concerned that I might still be out there.

I spent the afternoon packing up the stuff in one of their rooms, and moving most of the furniture out to the living room. They're having the floors redone and a lot of stuff was stored on the floor, so that was a project. At one point I sat on the edge of the bed to contemplate my next move, as far as which things should go in which bag/box/backpack/duffle, and standing back up was agony. My quads were waving the white flag, begging me to cease and desist all movement. I told them that I'm no quitter. However, when I finished the room and saw that the sun was shining once again, I didn't venture back into the yard, as I could have. I told the neighbor who saw me putting the rake away that I didn't want to get dirty again, but the truth is that I was afraid I'd be on the ground when Panther came home and I'd need her help standing up. She'd mock me through several lifetimes.

So I called it a day and headed home, unhappy about leaving the yard unfinished but with a few muscle fibers still intact. The traffic wasn't as bad as the day before, but it was traffic, so I sat still for an hour and a half. When I parked in front of the house and opened the car door, it took two (okay three) tries before I could stand up. Saturns are low vehicles.

Today is a new day, though, and each time I stand up or sit down it gets a little easier. I'm sure that by next week I'll be good to go again. Anyone who knows me knows that I need to conquer those weeds -- all of them. Especially the zombies.

*Name changed because my friend didn't like being named in my blog. Not this post, but I like to be thorough so am editing all that she's mentioned in.  As for Panther, that name had to be invented to protect the innocent, as they used to say on some old TV series whose title escapes me right now.