Addicted to Weeds

My husband is addicted to weeds.


He is obsessed with their complete annhialation. The only other kind of homeowner blight that garners the same level of fervor are ants. But weeds are easier prey than insects...they can't move.

I personally don't mind the weeds on our front lawn. They are green and look quite similar to grass, so why not run with it? Oh he does, he goes at them with his little weeding fork. Which is quite comical really because there is a huge expanse of unwanted flora...it's akin to eating a woolly mammoth with a toothpick. But he valiantly fights on. It is probably because he knows that our neighbors are yard pros and could spot a weed a mile off. Blindfolded.

He endures the cramping calves, blistered palms and presses onward and downward...to the roots. Those persnickety, tenacious tap roots. Our yard has weeds with tap roots like a mosquito's proboscis, sucking the nourishment from the defenseless grass blades. But have no fear blades of grass...the Terminator has arrived!

With spray gun in hand he fires with deadly accuracy. The little water suckers don't stand a chance.

I think my husband enjoys weeding because it appeals to the testosterone in him that has urges to go out and kill something. The defender in him rises up and since this is suburbia and there aren't invading hordes to fight, he battles the weeds.

It is a bloody war and he has suffered several battle wounds. With knees stained green and fingers aching, he returns from his crusade, victorious.

My weed whacker. My dandelion slayer. My purslane predator. My clover killer. My husband.