I’ve become psycho obsessed with my folks’ lawn. It’s becoming an issue. In the four weeks that I’ve been here to finish some writing, I’ve completely transformed the place. It didn’t look bad before but now it’s seriously award-worthy. It’s the Jessica Lange of lawns. At around five, I emerge from the garage apartment and just start doing shit. They live in a pretty quaint little neighborhood where everyone is tidy but no one, with the possible exception of a retiree down the street, no one goes all out. And even the retiree has a mostly shade covered lawn, which doesn’t have quite the potential that the sun-drenched carpet of grass at the Long’s possesses. My brother thinks I have OCD. My mom seems literally on the brink of exhaustion because it’s against her Protestant work ethic to let me work alone (I have tried to sneak out there when she’s not looking- it has worked exactly once). I feel like a God.
My mother got this toaster, colander and hand mixer as wedding gifts and they’ve been in pristine condition my entire lives. When I think of all the bake sales, birthday cakes, Saturday breakfasts and spaghetti nights facilitated by mother’s gentle care of these tools…I don’t know. Lots of respect.