Toil of the Soil

It always amazes me that as soon as the sun lingers a little longer in the sky and frost turns to dew, me and my fellow suburbanites head for the hardware store for endless buckets of multicolored mulch. Oddly for such a truly ‘green’ product made up of chunks of recycled tree branches, bark, and stumps, the stuff seems to be seen in all colors but GREEN? Who knows, maybe I lichen the look of a mold covered flower bed to match my rotting roof and anyway what’s so wrong with pairing a little red n’ green for a Springtime Christmas scene?

I wonder if this annual obscene dirt-dance offends those of us who struggle for a meal or an occasional hosing off of their darkest nooks and crookiest of crannies? After all vast vats of cash are routinely exchanged in May so my ‘burb-bound milky-skinned ilk can don crisp pairs of button-down blues, farmer tans, and make handsome houses of ‘SILT-repute’. It bothers me that I’m dumb enough also to join-in and waste gas by hauling around big brown bags of musty-have mulches, simply to cover up my slightly ‘less-brown’ mounds of soil in the planters and gulches.

Since my yard’s dandelion and crabgrass needs are always satisfied and not pressing, it’s unclear why society has scorn for the already in-place brown mud and dust made of nature’s fav top-dressing. Most anything already grows in the stuff and its use results in less of a stress-y mess and all the loss from expensive mass distribution and compost-y cost.  I guess there’s good reason, like shy deer won’t try our former glory-plant’s gnawed-off leftover stalk, without the scent of fresh mulched earth nearby with ‘choco’ dye on the top.  

But never fear there is an upside to all of this mind-numbing mulching since my neighbors actually have new-found respect for me and are amazed that I can take on such a big job quickly without outside labor. While I appreciate the kudo-reaping and end results of my solo grounds-keeping, it’s actually no big deal to my better half who could do just the same alone in my stead. Yes the wife and I have similar down-to-earth independent natures and are always up for gritty challenges so she'll not be impressed . . .  since in many times past, she has encouraged me to soil myself fast!

Golf ABC's

My wife plays golf in a league, so on occasion I will accompany her to the driving range where she can spend some quality time with the white dimpled sphere atop my shoulders as well as those at the end of her clubs. I usually hit a few balls too and of course expertly coach her on all I know about slicing shots out of bounds into the trees and hooking professionally. Obviously my ‘caddie’ comments and use of ‘Wite-out’ to disguise range balls’ red stripes for regular tournament play, clearly shows that her handicaps are LARGE, both at home as well as on the course.

The spouse seems to appreciate my excellent driver discipline since I yell at every club in the bag when they make careless mistakes regardless of how nicely I address them. Being cave-raised has its bat-benefits, but it makes one ill-prepared to stare at the sun in search of little rocket-launched balls while dodging skeeters, cart-geezers, and my wife’s dirty looks. So soon enough she tires of my persistent putter muttering and sends me off to sweep cat treats out of the sand traps and perfect my Zen garden raking readiness. 

Of course venturing so far into nature, away from the protections of my house-bound pen carries a certain amount of risk, especially for those un-lucky enough to view my knobby knees in a pair of plaid shorts. Apparently insects however find my CROTCHety crevices and dewy exposed skin an irresistible puffy pin cushion draw, despite death as discipline for the price of admission. Yes I seem to be a big bloated beacon begging to be browbeaten, by every bug, bird, or unidentified orb that dives n’ flies through the air in search of a sample of a salty simp. 

But alas the tables are truly turned on my buzzing brethren when they dare flare for touch-down anywhere near my face for a taste. Just like my much wiser human acquaintances, a sad driving range bee discovered this windy weekend that it’s best to steer clear of any orifice of mine that is frequently flapping. Don’t worry though, despite the temptation I didn’t bear down on the black n’ yellow fellow and make him face the ‘grind’; I simply shot the drool-drizzled dude out in a warm wad of my own ‘nectar’ as a warning of what fate awaits Any Bee I Cee.

MULCH ado about nothing

Now that fleeting Spring has fully ‘sprung’, I’ve been sentenced to another year of ‘hard time’ in the yard in hopes of prolonging a blooming bounty of fancy foliage to foster and frequently fawn over. Typically in Mother Nature’s cruel yet unusual judgment, showy flowers and bursting buds should quickly wilt, drop-off and take up asylum in the neighbor’s gunk lined gutters as soon as seasonally possible. So my thankless job, along with millions of martyred garden minions like me, is to mount mountains of mucho mulch-o in an elephantine effort to garner the gift of greater growth-time in our gardens.  

Yes the unending cycle of nature’s fickle exorcism to ‘wash, rinse, and rePEAT’ soil from poor soul-less plants with dirtier and crustier barks than MY OWN has begun. This of course signals a time of ignorance, mulchy indecision, self-flagellation, and poorly manicured ungues except for my one ‘Hulk-green’ thumb. Between the rain, frost, drought, and neglect, there’s just too much pressure already to segregate bus loads of mulch varieties around the trees, lotsa’ hostas, and our habitat of inhumanity. 

Anyway I thought we were all supposed to be colorblind now so why does mulch come in so many flavors and grinds? Even coffee with all its dedicated legions of fancy corner cafes and mountaintop rarities still shows up handsomely cup after cup in a similar shade of ‘SAME’ every day. I don’t need a more colorful life since I’m already black n’ blue from working around this barnyard; green with envy of those who don’t have to, and  my grimy neck and a rosy ‘RED’ have always been such good friends?

Why should I care about a bunch of pushy bushy troublemaking trees n’ shrubbery who’s only purpose should be to filter the air, break wind, and ‘creak’ only when spoken to. All this work for a bunch of thoughtless organics who haunt n’ taunt me by unfurling millions of  little ‘flyers’ every year which they LEAVE all over the place every Fall.  Hmmm . . . maybe I should just move to the Amazon.com since this mulching thing  ‘ain’t’ my ‘BAG’ and I could shake my spear in peace. At least there the RUBBER trees make their own mulch and when they fall down around the hut, it’s delivered  and spread out for FREE!

Teeter Totter Math

I have to be honest, I was not too worried about the recent hurricane threat because who on earth has ever been beat up by somebody named ‘Sandy’. I mean even ‘Sanford & Son’s’ namesake, Fred would frequently wave his fist around and mouth off a bit,  but who actually saw him punch anyone. So why should I expect this big billowy blow-hard with a wimpy name to raise some cane this time around?

Anyway isn’t it a pre-requisite for everyone born in the warm waters near the Bahamas to be kind of laid-back, mellow and in a generally sleepy Caribbean Cannabis haze? I am not sure what happened when the bright bulb weather-geeks named this hurricane, but I would prefer if in the future they would find inspiration somewhere other than tough biker bars. Gee how about giving us a havoc heads-up, or at least a clue with a more appropriate ‘S’ name like  ‘Slash’, ‘Sue-nami’, or my personal favorite, ‘the Subjuganator’.

Aside from me being powerless (literally) to fend off this sandy jab from a weather crab, I was saddened to see that New Jersey was hit so hard too. Not only had I recently spent a nice couple of days there across from Manhattan, but I was really hoping to do some trick or treating in the garden state before the Governor cancelled Halloween! I wait all year to legitimately don my thriller of a ‘Goriller’ suit and chase kids in a high-brow high-rise and one stupid storm’s eye pokes me in mine. Yes  my monkeyshine whines are tiny as compared to the trials and tribulations of many after the weather has played a nasty trick this Fall. 

But despite my levity, from personal experience, no matter how low spirits go, it might take time but things will truly get better. There is never a proper name for pain or a good time for tests of mettle; but consider these moments as the counterweight to life’s joy on the other side of the equation. Without the lows, there can be no highs and despite the costs, losses, and challenges, life’s quirky teeter-totter math will eventually balance out in all things.  Just look at my newfound respect of everything ‘Sandy’ – I’ll never look at that irritating stuff between my toes and in my swim shorts the same way again!

A Quibble over Kibble

I know that it’s been hot because I’m shedding more these days and my doghouse has the odor of a lot more than Febreeze. It’s ok since when my tum’s toasty, I tend to eat a lot less junk like cauliflower and cantaloupe and keep my belly brim-full with carbs, candy and K-mart calories. I know it’s wrong to fall to the siren song of the market’s pet food aisle, though at times it’s hard to back my beak off from its heavenly scent when hungry for a late night meat treat.

Other than myself, no foaming mouthed rabid animals actually live in my pound, but that doesn’t mean I am restricted from giving pet food the sniff test and a welcomed pause for the ‘Schnozz’ does it? Honestly, INSIDE the store at least, why does the dog n’ cat stuff smell so much better than that turkey stuffing that we humans are expected to eat? It is obvious that those ‘Pup-eroni’ meat sticks already LOOK yummy and more fun to gum than the ‘Slim Jims’ for dummies, but what’s really frustrating is why do they have to cost half the price too?

To this day I cannot open a can of corned beef hash and not think of a double dose of Mighty Dog. You know if the stuff looks and smells EXACTLY the same, it has to taste the same too right? Who needs fancy pate’ at parties when my guests can coat their crackers in a heaping helping of Fromms or other gourmet goody foody for pets and be just as happy. 

Let’s face it, if fancy folks are dumb enough to eat tripe in soup, roe on toast, and endure ‘liverWORST’ sandwich breath then they have no right to turn their nose up to my Milkbone when I flash it in their face. I have simple tastes and IAMS the first to admit that the vast majority of them are ‘Honey Boo Boo’ BAD, but there should be nothing wrong with loving a little nip n’ whiff of Purina in the morning. After all I can accept that people will always quibble over my kibble, but for society’s sake it would be well advised to steer clear and let me be, with a personal choice of body shampoo for my ticks and fleas!