I mean, who's complaining?

Seriously, there aren't enough words to describe the evilness of edging a lawn. I edged one very long stretch of ours today and I was cussing, bitching and calling all of our neighbors racial slurs (ok, that part is untrue). Matt and Sam came outside to check on my progress, and I said, "Probably not a good time to talk to me." Matt knows exactly what this means.

Because we live on a corner we have one freaking big yard, which, God knows why, I happily claimed as "mine" when we moved in. I'm minutes away from calling a lawn service. The only bright spot of this torture was 1) The fact that Sam did help me early on, before the name-calling, and he was so darn cute about it, and 2) Sam got bored with helping pretty quickly and 3) Sam hosed the middle of the street and said, "Mom, I'm being evil (this was preliminary, way before I'd decided that edging was the devil's work)." I asked why. He replied, "Because I'm making the street slippery for cars that pass." I said, "Ooooh, good one, honey."

But how can I really complain? Matt has spent the last 3 Saturdays putting together Sam's new totally-awesome playset that I picked out. Matt is far less dramatic or bitchy than I, and he--this will blow you away--never really complains.

DAMN IT. That pisses me off!

Our neighbors were over last night, and the wife (my friend) of the family said, "Jill's a work horse." Oh, man, I love her. FINALLY someone recognizes my efforts! I am a work horse. It's a Brooks thing. I take after my dad, who took after his dad, who took after my great-grandfather, who could apparently put a fence post in the ground without ever first digging a hole. We have brut strength, it's weird, and I love physical labor, even when I'm complaining.

Our old-guy next door neighbor told me a few weeks ago: Let me know if you ever want to get rid of your husband. Hahaha. He's a strange chap with a mysterious motorcycle alter-ego, which wouldn't interest me on any playing field. He wants free labor.

Sidebar: Sam dunked his first Oreo in milk this week. I think that's a rite of passage in the South.