It is before 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning. As I do every morning I stepped on the bathroom scale and then looked in the mirror. On some mornings the news is worse than others. Today was a bad news day. I know the 2 and 4 a.m. moonlight walks with a diarrheal dog didn’t help how I looked. And I gained two pounds overnight.At that moment the thought occurred to me that I may be on the downhill side of life. And what’s weird is that I can’t even remember becoming a grownup. I mean, I still find myself wondering what I want to be when I grow up. I still get these ideas that I can pursue all sorts of careers and passions.
“I want to be a professional figure skater!”
“I’m going to start a rock-and-roll girl band!”
“I think I would make a really good private detective!”
“I know! I’ll go to medical school!”
Reality intrudes most days. The fact is that I have a house with a big yard and garden. I have three cars, two dogs, eight pet chickens, progressive lenses, 27 magazine and two newspaper subscriptions and four sets of dinnerware.
Yes, in fact, I do call it dinnerware. When was the last time you heard someone other than a grownup say the word “dinnerware?” Never, that’s when.
The sad fact is, the train has left the station on my being a figure-skating-rock-and-roll-private-detective-doctor.
I’m not going to reveal my age, so let’s just say I’m past the age at which someone would consider me to be a kid. I know, for example, that you would look at me and think “Yup, she’s a grownup.” And the signs are all there.
I know I’m a grownup because I’m the one who cleans up the dog vomit at 4 a.m.
I know I’m a grownup because wearing a string bikini is no longer an option. (You’re welcome.)
I know I’m a grownup because I sometimes turn on closed captioning to watch True Detective.
I know I’m a grownup because I have a reminder on my calendar to change the heating and air conditioning air filters on the first of the month. It’s a paper calendar.
I know I’m a grownup when I hear rap music.
And weeds. Weeds make me know I’m definitely a grownup. No child voluntarily weeds. But here I am, a grownup, wide awake before 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning with the great big to-do list sitting on the kitchen counter that says in big capital letters “PULL WEEDS.”
Oh yes. I have grownup written all over me. I think I have a t-shirt in the back of my closet that says “Keep Calm. I’m a Grownup.”
You know what? Even if I’m a grownup I should do something to make weeding fun—or at least make weeding funny.
Two weeds walk into a bar…Hey, I think this funny weed idea has legs. Already we have some funny weed names. Quakgrass. Nutgrass. Prostrate spurge. Creeping Charlie. Pigweed. Henbit. Hairy bittercress. I know someone was poking fun when they were naming these things.
What else can make weeds funny? Limericks. Limericks are funny.
There once was a gardener in Maine
Who set out to kill the purslane.
Instead of a weed she killed her best steed.
And now she’s considered insane.
No wait. That’s not funny at all. Let’s try again.
There once was a gardener in Beed
Who set out to kill a big weed.
Instead of a hoe he used his big toe
And now the whole garden’s weed seed.
Hummmm. Maybe this better?
There once was a gardener named Cass
Who set out to kill some quakgrass.
Instead of a hoe she used her big toe
Of course she is now on her ass.
Oh well. Time to go be a grownup, drink coffee and pull some weeds.
Now let’s see…two weeds walk into a bar…