Grass Class

Would you agree that a very human trait is the competitive spirit? It manifests in hundreds of scenarios. In keeping with the theme of domestic humor, I want to write about suburban lawn care.

When we became homeowners, I observed that most of the neighborhood men were mildly obsessive-compulsive about their yards. If one guy went out to mow the lawn, five men would be outside cutting the grass. As the sounds of equipment amplified, the number of men with trimmers, blowers, mowers, tractors, and clippers would grow exponentially.

My husband, the office workaholic, allowed me to takeover yard duties. Being female, I was breaking tradition. Proudly, I can say that with care and attention, our hedge of scrawny Red Tips grew to a lush 10'. Ted, from next door, discreetly and anxiously watched when I used the hedge clipper to trim them. Kindly, he was waiting for me to fall from the top of the stepladder.

I liked mowing best because you could immediately feel accomplishment from the manicured pattern you left behind. It is unlike child rearing, where you patiently wait 20-plus years to realize if your parenting technique was successful.

In order to 'compete' successfully, you have to train. I took a class about grass from the Extension Services Bureau. Who knew there are so many types of grass? There is zoysia, fescue, bluegrass, ryegrass, Bermuda, and centipede. I learned about 18-6-12 fertilizer and more than any woman should know about soil sampling. I felt I needed this information so that our yard would meld with the neighborhood. To my surprise, our grass looked pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.

That same summer, my husband and I went to a party across the street. The hosts were a great couple - two bright, over-achievers. Alex, head of household, was a newly minted doctor with a passion for hot cars. He souped-up the engine on his lawn tractor, making it the by far fastest on the block. His colleagues, young 30-something medical specialists, were standing around intellectually chatting about golf and things. Someone mentioned grass. My ears pricked up and I turned to announce that I had completed "Grass Class."

Have you ever used a magnet to attract straight pins? Just that fast, the young docs honed-in, full of questions. "There's really a class for that? What fertilizer do you recommend? What's the best variety for X, Y, Z condition?" My husband stood back smiling, while my head bobbled around trying to absorb all the questions and comments. Wow! I was surrounded by hunky, brainy guys! First time ever! Too bad for me - taken....

Here is my conclusion. I stumbled upon this phenomenon incidentally... I might doublethink it as an ethical behavior for eligible females. Oh- what the heck! If ever a girl wants to attract a man, take a "Grass Class."

Power Tools

Certain things draw men together in competitive, pack-like behavior. Nothing calls to men like power tools. Power tools equals testosterone equals manliness. While living in eastern North Carolina, we weathered several hurricanes. As one would expect, many of the tree roots pull from the ground, leaving the trees teetering dangerously. These muddy tangles are called root balls, I kid you not. There is something phallic about the whole thing...

Uprooted trees were the case in our yard. The morning after the storm, my husband stood next to a cock-eyed 75-foot tree, coffee mug in one hand, chain saw at his feet. One by one, the neighborhood men meandered over with bed head and ratty yard clothes. For about an hour, the five men walked around the tree making grand hand gestures. One would leave and return with a coil of rope. Another would leave and return with a fully equipped leather tool belt. Two men arrived with bigger chain saws.

A plan was taking shape. "Get more coffee!" my husband enthused, rubbing his palms together. "We're going to drop the tree between the two houses across the street."

"Oh boy..." I thought. From my front window, I could see other wives peaking around the curtains. I knew every mother was accounting for her children. The tension was mounting like High Noon.

Eventually the chain saws cranked up. The RPMs revved higher as the saw bit into the wood. Ermmm...ErERmmmm... crack cra-ack... Rebel yells...Va-voom! More yelling... Luckily, the jack pine fell between the two houses with only one piece of collateral damage, the portable basketball hoop. High-fives went all around! There were slaps on the back and goofy grins! Moreover, it didn't stop there. It was a joyful day spent in camaraderie, reducing the tree to mulch. 

We women can all share stories about the boys with toys. The topics are endless.  However, let us hope that the men do not get started on the ladies. Estrogen would provide a plethora of material for the verbal battle between the sexes.

Home Security Systems

Mastering the home security system is one of the most challenging obstacles when moving to a new home. I've often wondered why "regular" folk, such as myself, need a home security system. Regardless, most houses seem to come with them.

We're fairly simple people. While I certainly wouldn't want my personal space intruded upon, the truth is that my most valued possessions are my books. We have no elaborate entertainment centers or fancy gizmos, only knock-off jewelery (purchased by my husband in NY's Chinatown), shoes from DSW, and clothes from Sears or JC Penney. In my mind, if someone is foolish enough to break in - take it! I need the closet space.

The previous owner of our new home installed a security system with more wires than a cable distribution center. He kindly left a sheet with different numerical codes, depending upon what security setting you wanted: locked up with people inside, locked up with no people inside, locked up except for the garage, motion detectors, and so forth.

The first night in the house we were all exhausted. At midnight, I wanted to put my head on a pillow and wake up next week. My husband, so excited in his new castle, felt compelled to arm the security system. I suggested, " Perhaps that could wait until we aren't so tired." " We'll understand all the instructions better," I reasoned. Hunched over the papers on the kitchen counter, a gleam of anticipation in his eye, my husband said, "Here we go!" Peck. Peck. Peck.

Almost immediately the system began chirping, "Bidda, Bidda, Bip, Bip.... Bidda, Bidda, Bip, Bip...." We looked at each other thinking, "Did we activate a bomb?" Within 30 seconds the whole house reverberated with a crippling, "Whoop, Whoop, Whoop!"

The kids started screaming, the dogs started howling. I covered my ears thinking, "The whole neighborhood will wake up because of the new people." Peck, peck, peck. Nothing. Peck, peck, peck. Still nothing. "Whoop, Whoop, Whoop!"

"Doesn't this thing time out?" I shouted.
"I don't think so... What if it goes to the police station?" My husband started to panic. Peck, peck, peck. "Whoop, Whoop, Whoop!"

Finally, he started pulling wires from the box tucked away in a kitchen cabinet. Nothing. "Whoop, Whoop!" He ran down to the basement looking for the breaker box. "Get me the wire cutters!" he yelled over his shoulder. I turned in a circle eye-balling a wall of cartons 6 ft high. "Yeah, right," I thought. I grabbed a box cutter and raced after him.

We stood in awe looking at the security system box. Wires of every color wrapped, crossed, and bundled together. "Whoop, Whoop, Whoop!"
"I'm cutting them," he shouted, sawing and hacking his way through the connections. "Bidda... Bidda... bip... boop..." Silence.

Hence forth and hereafter, we have never activated any security system in our subsequent homes. Yes, there has been existing hardware, but it's always disabled before we move in. Oh, and the bidda -boop system we severed, it cost $500 for the company to splice and repair the rainbow of wires for the next owners. Hope they had better luck!

Water Pics

Elderly parents generally don't like to "throw away" anything. Whenever I visit my Mother, whom I dearly love, she always gives me something to take with me when I leave. Recently, it was an old water pic.

Water pics are for good dental hygiene. I remember subjecting my children to a water pic when they wore braces. It was useful for getting rid of food crud trapped in the wiring around their teeth. They didn't like it very much. My parents used the water pic for a time to keep aging teeth and gums healthy. My father was religious about its use. I remember the rhythmical chirpy sounds of the water shooting out of the pic.

When I got home, I looked the water pic over. I thought I would try it, as I'm a strong proponent for good dental hygiene. Plus my Dad used it... The plastic tank, which holds about 3 cups of water, mounts to the top of the pic pump. The pic pump sucks the water in and shoots it down narrow tubing to the pic handle. The pic plugs into the handle, goes into your mouth and you aim it between your teeth. The handle has settings to adjust the pressure of the pic squirts from gentle sprays to a fire hose pummel. It also has a button to release the interchangeable pic part. (The idea being that every family member would have their own pic identified by color.)

Upon setting up the water pic and adding some mouthwash for a minty fresh flavor I grabbed the handle and threw the on switch. Instantly water shot out hitting the bathroom mirror and adjacent walls. I fumbled to turn it off. "Wow," I thought, "that was unexpected."

I wiped everything down with a hand towel, picked up the handle again and carefully placed the pic in my mouth. I closed my lips over the appliance and flipped the switch. "Yowza!" I twisted my wrist to try to aim the spray at my teeth. Inadvertently, I hit the button that releases the pic from the handle and water spewed over the handle, down my wrist, and was sopped up by my shirt sleeve. I fumbled to turn the water pic off. "Alright then."

"Three's the charm," I thought while drying my arm, wrist, hand, and the handle. I reattached the pic and lined everything up, ready to go. I flipped the switch on and felt the pressurized water pumping against my teeth and gums. It felt pretty good. By the time I'd sprayed my top 6 right teeth, my mouth was getting very full of water.

"Ah-h-h, is this what waterboarding torture is like?" In less time than it takes to tell, I had water dribbling out of my mouth, into the sink, over my hand/wrist/arm/shirt sleeve. Grappling for the on/off switch I hunched over to spit into the sink. The last shots of water from the pic hit me in the face. The front of my shirt was soaked.

"Surely, they've worked out these design flaws by now," I thought. "Lord I hope so! Who would buy this thing?" Mostly, I felt guilt for subjecting my children to a water pic at a young age.

Finally, I have a system for using this appliance.

1. Always use the water pic before you get dressed.
2. Always keep one hand at the on/off switch.
3. Always keep a towel available to dry off,
4. Always know where the pic is pointing.
5. Stop and spit often.
6. Expect 8 to 10 starts and stops to clean all teeth, front and back.

I feel proud of my efforts to improve my dental health. I'm just hoping the next thing my mother gives me isn't an enema bag.