Yard Work: Part II

I talked about our lawn in my last post, and I’ve got one more thing to say, but first, I want to give you some background on our excavator.

My husband has a 1-year-old German shepherd. Technically, she’s “our” dog, but as far as she’s concerned, I am a wicked witch who happens to reside in the same home as her and her father. I’m not sure WHY she came to this conclusion, but I can’t seem to change her opinion of me. It was ME who purchased Erika, it was ME who filled out mounds of paperwork and went through multiple phone interviews with the breeder, it was ME who drove 18 hours to bring her home, it was ME who was the stay-at-home parent for the first 3 months, and then worked only a few hours a day until she was 10 months old. I potty trained her, I feed her, I took her through her first obedience classes, I played with her and trained her tricks during the day, and I am the one who reminds her father that we love her and can’t give her away, even when she has eaten 18 inches of the door frame or hubby’s beret.

Still, she is a daddy’s girl ‘til the end. And truly, I’m glad. When we got married, I had Satchel (R.I.P, my darling, dear, Satchel), who had been around long before hubby was in the picture. They loved each other, but me and Satch, we were a pair. Erika had been hubby’s dream dog since he was in grade school, so it couldn’t have been better that she took to him, despite my heavy involvement in her raising.

Erika was a dream-puppy. She had less than a dozen accidents in the house, she passed her S.T.A.R puppy test on the first try, she’s the smartest dog I’ve ever met and whoever said you can’t have beauty and brains never met our baby girl. I may be bias, but her breeding and paperwork backs up my claims, she’s quite an extraordinary dog.

As well bred and gorgeous as she is, sadly, E is not immune to the teenage phase. Now that I’m back to work full-time, she is left home alone with my (well-behaved) black lab, Buford all day. As much as we don’t like being at work, hubby and I dread going home. Every day it’s something new, and always worse than the day before.

Destroyed items worth noting:
-my passport
-hubby’s beret (If you aren’t military, you may not know this, but they spend a LOT of time shaping those things, pretty important and big deal items)
-18 inches of the interior door frame in the kitchen
-many, many slippers, gloves, books, and other items she felt needed to be tasted

Those are just a few of the things from INSIDE. Outside, our lawn is littered with things we’ve never seen, but she somehow got a hold of, and proceeded to destroy. I wouldn’t be too concerned if it was potato chip bags, papers, or other miscellaneous bits of trash that sometimes blow from yard to yard. No, there are railroad ties (I’m not even sure WHERE the closest railroad is), large bones we never brought her, and gutters. The gutters are the weirdest part. They aren’t coming off of OUR house (believe, me, we’ve checked), and they’re huge strips, ranging from 2 feet to 6 feet… I don’t know what she does during the day to acquire this stuff, but somehow it ends up covered in teeth marks in our yard.

When she’s not disassembling houses for the gutters, or hanging out by the railroad chewing on ties, Erika turns her attention to the lawn. Our backyard looks like the surface of the moon, there are craters everywhere! The holes are unsightly and irritating, but when it rains they become even worse, holes become mud pits. Erika loves mud pits even more than she loves travel documents, exterior pieces of homes and Army uniform headwear all put together. I, however, do not love a muddy dog, because inevitably, I have just mopped the floor and put on dress clothes when she comes tearing in, dirties up my floor and leaves me with paw prints on my skirt. (Real quick: worse than a muddy dog, is a poopy dog.)

When hubby finally reached the breaking point and couldn’t deal with the holes anymore; we began to research ways to stop a digging dog. The first suggestion we tried was filling the holes with the dog’s poop. (This is how we ended up with a poopy dog). This solution was gross, and didn’t work. The other popular suggestion was to fill the hole, and just under the surface, lay chicken wire. When a dog digs into the wire, it hurts and they are deterred. Aha! So we went to Home Depot and bought 80lbs of dirt and a roll of chicken wire.

80lbs of dirt only filled in one crater, and Erika proceeded to dig around the chicken wire, then pulled it out and restored the hole to it’s former glory. Except now it’s even bigger because of the hole next to it. She did not, however, chew up the chicken wire.

Our latest strategy? If you can’t change your circumstance, change your attitude. We went to Wal-Mart and bought six rose bushes and took advantage of the evenly placed holes E dug us (Hubby only had to slightly move ONE hole!). We’re hoping the thorns will prevent her from pulling them up or digging around them.

Hopefully soon we’ll have flowers, but I’ve got a gut feeling we’ll end up seeing those holes again before long, have a dog with a bloody mouth and rose bushes chewed and scattered among the gutters…

Thanks For Giving Us SH*T!

No, really, thanks for the SH*T!

Hubby and I don’t have lawn-of-the-year. A decent amount of the green stuff is crab grass, and more often than not, it’s a little over due for a mowing. We keep it up, it’s not horribly embarrassing, but it’s not pristine. It’s not that we don’t care, it’s just that we don’t know what to do, and even if we did, we simply don’t have time to maintain it to the standards of our neighbor, “the Yard-Nazi”. Is it a requirement that every block have THAT guy? You know who I’m talking about, Mr. Loves-His-Lawn-More-Than-His-Kids?

Spring is coming around, and with a high of 69 yesterday, and 80s in the forecast this week hubby and I got started on the yard. Last week we raked up all the leaves and other things that show up when the snow melts. Not to be outdone, the next day, The Yard-Nazi also raked his lawn. Sunday hubby mowed. As soon as the Yard-Nazi heard mower engine rev up, he abandoned his family barbeque to trim his grass, too. I don’t know why he’s so competitive with US. As I said, we’re not even in the running for any ribbons here.

Yesterday was the big day, weeding the flower bed and planting some new color, tilling up all the dead grass and putting down seed, you know, the fun stuff! We already had the seed and the seed spreader; we just needed to go to the store for a few colorful plants for the flowerbed, and for the lawn, some kind of fertilizer, top soil… You know, manure.

Hubby and I both pulled into the driveway at 6; there was a foul smell in the air. Our across-the-street neighbors were out getting their mail and called over “Hey! We just fertilized our lawn; we’ve still got a truck load of this stuff if you need any, feel free to help yourselves!” What luck, a whole truck-bed full of horse poop! It even got better! They told us WE had first dibs, and when we were done, the Yard-Nazi was going to use whatever was left!

We stayed out past dark, drinking a few beers and digging, spreading, watering, planting and taking total advantage of all the free fertilizer! All the while, the Yard-Nazi stealing glances, waiting his turn at the good-stuff in the back of the truck so he could top us again!

Plants for the flowerbed: $11.00
Grass Seed: $24.00
The pride that comes from digging in horse SHI*T while the Yard-Nazi looks on with envy: Priceless

Are YOU My Mother?

Hubby’s family came to visit this weekend. I’m very blessed to have not only a wonderful hubby, but wonderful in-laws! We had a great time, they taught us to play Kings in the Corner and we showed them the things to see on post and some of our favorite places around our town. Our dogs were excited to see cousin-Juno and and we were all sad to see them leave yesterday.

Hubby and I got married more than 6 months ago, went home for Thanksgiving and hadn’t seen either of our families since, and while the distance from our families has been strange, it’s also been nice in a lot of ways. We missed everyone at Christmas, but enjoyed spending the holiday together and making it our own (We won’t be able to share our next one, with hubby on another continent). We often miss the advantages of built-in dog sitters, or having parents there for a promotion ceremony, sisters and brothers to enjoy comedy shows with and going out with good friends from back home. However, the fresh start and opportunity to grow together as a couple is very special to us.

Do you want to know the thing I MOST appreciate about living more than 7 hours away from everyone we knew? It is being able to avoid the awkwardness of addressing his parents.
My parents were born and raised in the south, where you said Sir and Maam, and they brought us kids up the same way. Hubby’s parents were always Mr. and Mrs. to me. When hubby proposed and we became engaged, it felt too formal to call them Mr. and Mrs., but there was no way I would start calling them by their first names uninvited! Here the avoidance began. Since Christmas, 2008, I have successfully NOT called my hubby’s parents anything, most of the time it was quite easy, and when it wasn’t, my escape was to enlist hubby’s help, “Babe, can you get your mom’s attention?”

The avoidance technique worked for almost a year! Until the night we came back from our honeymoon; we were at his parents’ house talking to his dad. A comment was made about “Mrs. W”, and hubby stepped in to remind him that I am also “Mrs. W” now! This was the moment I had waited for, permission to call them… Something! Nope. No further instructions, he just laughed at the realization.

Hubby and I are good friends with a couple down the street, who also just got married (The same day we did, actually). Recently, her in-laws came to visit, and mine were planning their first trip out, which led to her and me commiserating over dinner about the anxiety caused by not knowing what to call your husband’s parents. While hubby laughed at us that night, he must have taken my concerns to heart. I knew he told his parents because this weekend, they made sure to tell me, more than once, to call them…

Mom and Dad.

A flood of relief, I can finally directly address them again!

But wait! Mom and Dad…? Aren’t those… MY parents? Don’t they already have dibs on the titles? Am I the only one who finds this… awkward? *sigh*

“Are YOU my Mother?”

What Would You Do For $5?

Just discovered this website today. I think I'm going to buy cartoon images of hubby and me for $5.

fiverr.com

Faking It

There are only 2 reasons to move to our town, you’re going to College or you’re in the Military. Couple that primarily-young population with the lack of big city things to do around here, and you end up with a lot of drinking. To my knowledge, our town is the only one known for “Fake Patty’s Day”. Held the week before the traditional St. Patrick’s Day, it is nothing but a drinking holiday; I’m told the bars opened at 8am.

Hubby and I aren’t old. We’re actually pretty young, I’m just approaching 25 this year and he will follow right behind, but we FEEL old. Our bed time is 9pm (Our alarm goes off at 5am) we grumble when our neighbors come home from the bars after midnight. Our bodies are falling apart - if we combine our working knees, we only have one set.

I love hubby and the way we live our lives, but put us next to a few 21-year-olds and we might as well be collecting social security. It’s amazing how just a few years can make such a difference in your priorities and lifestyle. In an effort to embrace our youth, we did go out Saturday, but certainly not at 8am. We went to a communications class in the morning, helped a friend move and paint, came home so hubby could lay on a heating pad for his back and read a history book while I got ready to go downtown.

We left the house about 6:30, planning to go get supper at one of our favorite bars (Whose burgers were voted the best in the state, no big deal. They grill a mean portabella mushroom too!). We assumed that since the bars opened at 8, the crowd would have cleared out a little bit; surely no one has that kind of stamina. Apparently lots of folks do. I’ve never seen so many Kelly Green clad drunks in my life! Most of who had awesome t-shirts printed with sayings like “He thinks I’m only faking today!” or “If women can fake orgasms, we can fake a holiday”, etc. (Quick tip for the ladies: Don’t ever fake. You’re cheating yourself! Make him learn to get it right!)

After an extensive wait to even get INTO the bar, and then finally snagging a table, we had a great time people-watching, and were joined by hubby’s commander and his fiancé. We had fried pickles, an obligatory green beer, and juicy burgers (One of us had a portabella burger). I had 2 Irish Ale’s, brining me to a whopping total of 3 beers over 4 hours, on a made-up-just-to-drink holiday. I have become somewhat of a lightweight again because this left me with a pretty good buzz. Cheap drunk alert :-P

The last time we closed the bars, the only time we ever closed the bars, was early last summer. It took us weeks to recover! We had a great time on Saturday, even though we were home before 11; it was still way past our bed time.