#ThisHoeAintLoyal

I hurt myself from all the hoe’n. I shouldn’t hoe around so much. Hoe’n hurts. Honestly, I’m not cut out for it. I’m pretty sure my hoe’n technique was all wrong.

I know, I know. I should have gone with a professional instead of doing it myself.

You also realize I’m talking about my backyard, right? Right. 
#YouveGotADirtyMind

Look, it’s not easy being single in these streets. I’m out here trying to have that HGTV life in my backyard on a DollarTree budget. Ain’t no way. Ain’t. No. Way. But, I’m an extroverted, type A, you can’t tell me what I can’t do, just dare me, type personality, so, there’s that.

So, if you want a backyard, and you want to do it the right way with the wrong person, here’s what you do… Good Luck.

Find someone who actually cares enough to figure out how this works. This person isn’t you. It’s Shannnn. Otherwise known as Speedy, the sub 2.5 hour half marathon runner. This person will actually do research and ask real questions. And then write all the answers on a paper towel. Because, it’s us we’re talking about. Seriously. What did you expect?

Dig up the crap in your backyard standing in between you and lazy lounge chair with wine Saturdays. This is that crap that they just kinda let happen. It’s a mixture of dirt, weeds, crab (read: crap) grass, rocks, insects, and hopelessness. It’s really freakin terrible. It’s the backyard version of the child left behind. But, dig. Here’s the thing, you have to dig so much, which isn’t much, but so much for you, that you get a blister. You literally get a blister, from a half ass attempt at using a shovel, to dig up crap dirt.

Get your crazy someone (Shannnn) to rent a thingie called a rototiller. It’s like Edward scissors hands and shake weights on an elderly person’s walker attached to a gas motor. Not gonna lie, this thing is freaking cool. But, you’re in the house because, you’re allergic to dust and manual labor. And well, you got a blister using a shovel so, there’s that. You’re obviously not the most qualified person to operate this thingie. You also refer to it as a “digging thingie” so…sit down inside. Anyway, you need this thing to mix around all the crap stuff that isn’t great, to make it great. 

Measure crap. You have to know like how long and wide the space is so you can order the right amount of stuff. Look, what’s up with all the freaking questions? I mean, like why do you need to know how many feet? I walked in here with two – and they hurt. You should be able to look at the desperation in my eyes, divide that by the volume of my tears and know exactly what I need. I thought you were a professional.

Okay, this is the fun turned fcked up part: Pick up the crap. There is a place, let’s call it, Neverland where they grow lawns, like for you, then chop them up in rectangles, roll them up, and let you buy them. Yoooo homey, it has the grass already attached to dirt. All perfect and ish. They call it “sod”…I call it “thank you Lord”…crazy how the English language translates, hunh?

Anyway, you gotta get that amazing already done grass, some compost (don’t ask, I really still don’t know and I bought like 5 bags of it with a 3 something measurement because that’s important, but like, why the hell do I care?), and fertilizer crap.

Here’s where it gets interesting. You need a truck to haul all this stuff. That means you need an Uncle. But, you don’t need to give him real advance notice of any of your plans, because that would be silly. Why would you tell someone who could advise you of what you’ve planned to do, so they can warn you about your abilities in relationship to the task at hand? Crazy, right? Right.

Okay, so you swing by his place to ask him to help pick the stuff up, because, Avalanche #ItsBlue. He looks at you like Whheeettt In The Hell? Don’t mind that look. It’ll discourage you and throw you off your game. You promise him tickets to the fair, a car wash, and all the love a niece has in the world. He agrees.

When you go pick this stuff, be in the worst mood ever. I mean, you’ve got to be having the worst day ever because, you’re about to get dirty, and why would you be excited about that? Ways to get in that mood? Easy…you miss a DSW sale #FreeBagWithPurchase, miss the cutoff date for the cheap registration to your race so you have to pay $15 more than what you anticipated, a bottle of wine falls off the shelf and explodes on the pantry floor where you keep your snacks, you stub your toe on the bed frame – chipping the purple nail polish, and you remember you don’t have AC in your bedroom after you spend the day doing this crap.

Pissed off yet?

I’m here to pick up the readymade grass stuff.-_-

*confused but looks it up in the Matrix* Um….okay? Just um, pull around back. I’ll get someone to get it for you.

Okay. So, you sure this is grass, like already grown up grass? Right? I don’t want no kiddie grass. I want adult-paying-taxes-W2 grass.

Uh, yes. *he thinks he knows what I’m talking about*

Oh wait. I’m supposed to get some compostable stuff. Like a yard of it. *looks at text message* Oh, my bad “a yard of redwood compost”. I’m not sure what that is.

No problem. We’ll get someone to load it up.

Great, thanks.

******drive around to the back of the nursery******

*the man who’s supposed to help us, who like my Uncle knows this is a bad idea, but…*

You want me to put it in there? This isn’t going to fit.

Can’t you just load it up and drop it on?

*raises forklift with stuff on it, drops down over bed of truck, I see that it won’t fit*

Ugh. Fine, I’ll just put the rolls on. #OneByOne #RIPtomyclothes #RidinDirty

It’s okay, I’ll load it up. *begins loading the truck, I think he’s laughing*

*Uncle in the distance, who isn’t happy about his truck getting this dirty* And you’re taking it off when we get to the house by yourself! #HeIsSuperMad

So, the yard of compost isn’t going to fit in the truck. *we all look at the wheels getting low*

I mean, can’t you just put it in a box or something? How much is it? *realizing that my only frame of reference for a yard is my Mommie in the fabric store*

See that thing over there? It’s a whole scoop of it.

Wheeeeettt? What were you going to do with that scoop? Just dump it on?

Uh *cause that’s how this works* yea.

Why would a person do that? Oh no…you ain’t dumping that stuff in the back of MY Uncle’s car *you got me effed up* I’mma need yall to box that stuff up, or put it in bags or something! We’ll be back.

Unload that already made grass rolls. Bruh, these things look like brown and green swiss rolls. You take them, 1 by 1 off the truck and unload them. Because you think that this is easy and like, they’re little(r) than you thought, so you can totally do this. And you do this, because your Uncle isn’t going to help you at all because it’s dirty and he’s not dressed for this. After you bring in the last grass-swiss-roll you feel hella accomplished. Let them know, WOMAN did this! Right?? So, you get in the truck to see about getting a yard of this compostable dirty stuff, and your arms are on fire. You’re wondering why there are turning red and itching. What could you have possibly done to cause this to happen? Sure, you’re allergic to everything from the minute hand on the clock ticking to weather changing, but where did this feeling come from?

Grass. You’ve basically done the equivalent to rolling around in grass. And since you’re also allergic to your former and future selves, you’re breaking out. Uncle passes you two allergy pills. You are officially done with this endeavor. Everything about this is stupid.

Give up.

******back at the nursery******

Look, I need a yard of that dirt crap I bought, but you’re not about to dump it in the back of my Uncle’s truck. Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you were going to do??? Nobody has health coverage for that. Ol’boy said that crap comes in bags. Give me a yard of that crap.

*looks up from the Matrix* Well, a yard comes out to 9 bags. We only have 5 bags of the equivalent to what you purchased.

Gimme that. Look, I’m about to take this crap and attempt to make a backyard. I’m pretty sure I’m going to do a half ass job of it when I get there. I need to know how bad Imma eff up this readymade grass crap if I do a half ass job with this compost dirt crap?

Uh…I uh, think you’ll be okay. *looks away at something happening in the Matrix*

Finally... Dump the compost dirt crap. Sprinkle fertilizer seed crap on top of it. Mix it all up. Water it. Roll out the readymade grass from heaven on top. Water it again.

Go upstairs and take off the last of your dignity. Shed a single tear as a cup of dirt falls from your sports bra to the bathroom floor. You shed that tear because you realize you’ve been walking around with a cup of dirt literally in your sports bra that you could not feel…for hours. You also have two blisters and a stab wound from opening that bag of dirt crap. Get in the shower and wash away all of your hope in humanity.

You remember you’re also putting a garden back there. …and you don’t have AC in your bedroom.