My Yard Boy

This is my husband. I really like him.

He doesn't appear on my blog often because he doesn't care to have his picture plastered all over the internet. What a shame. The man is a hunk with some seriously sexy biceps I wouldn't mind showing off. Most of the time I respect his wish for anonymity. But not today.

See that weed in his left hand? It is the last one of scores of tall weeds that he pulled around the yard this morning, after mowing the neighbor's un-landscaped yard (in which we garden in exchange for weed control). Because I was crippled all through spring and into mid-summer, the garden next door was much reduced in size, which left the remainder of the yard at the mercy of nature. Translation: because I have been siting on my fat apple for the last five months, the weeds took over. Prickly lettuce, goats head, knotweed, spurge, kochia, pigweed, and wild sunflowers flourished.

I feel responsible for the mess - after all, I am the one who made the deal with the kind, gracious woman next door. My husband is busy with more important things than yardwork, such as earning a living and seeing to the temporal and spiritual needs of 500 people, so I haven't asked for help with what was clearly a losing battle for me. As a result, the nightmare next door has been preying on my mind all summer.

And now they've all been cut down to the ground. Because he noticed that I was in over my head and just not keeping up.

Thanks, honey.