But it demands attention. Mostly for my mother, who took one giant step toward beatification as a result.
Seriously, this woman gestated me for just shy of 100 years. She should not now be subjected to panicked phone calls the likes of "Help! I'm 29 years old and I'm about to be swallowed by my lawn! Send cocktails and manual labor!"
In my defense, it was kind of pretty.
I mean, you know, probably choking out any potential grass and harboring large insects and poo piles, but pretty.
Alas, I did not place anything there for scale. Trust me when I tell you that this was some incredibly tall weed-strewn mess. J would stand in the middle of the yard, gazing at me and forlornly contemplating the slog back to the house versus jumping the fence and moving in with a more responsible family.
But thanks to my kindly lawnmower elf, the Mother Who Never Tires, and hours of backbreaking work, we turned this
It obliterated J's carefully carved path through the brush, but he was so overjoyed to be able to see his own feet again that I don't think he minded.
The privet hedge returned to its full upright and locked position once we disentangled it from the parasitic wisteria.
If you're not familiar with this Southern shrub, allow me to orient you. It's the big bushy thing between the useless half clothesline and the rotten stump. That's what you call landscaping, people.
Because I'm relatively impotent at yardwork, I was tasked with brush removal.
Ah, the Woodside. Where the grass is patchy, the chain link is prominent, and a day's worth of toiling creates the impression that the house was abandoned for a year. Home sweet home.