beer | Dr. Suze Espouses

Last week was family vacay. We’d originally planned a trip to Bah Mar in Nassau, but given the impending arrival of grandson number 2, we opted to remain stateside–and close to the hospital. As usual, this nervous flyer was sitting at the bar in Charlotte, NC, awaiting her next flight, when the bartender drawled, “Where y’all headed?”

Y’all, I thought. Is she talking to me? “Me? Myrtle Beach.”

“Ah, Dirty Myrtle. That’s a wild place. Y’all staying where the action is?”

OMG! I’m a septuagenarian! Do I look like I could handle action? And what’s this Dirty Myrtle stuff? Granted, I hadn’t been there in fifteen years, but I don’t recall it being dirty. “Where’s the action? I’m staying at Sands.”

“Good for you. You’re a ways away from the action.”

Hmm. Maybe. But maybe, I was missing out on something. Damn, at my age, I can’t afford to waste time; I have FOMO. So I need to research this. Unfortunately, there seems to be no definitive explanation for Dirty Myrtle. Some say there was an old popular beer by the same name. Others suggest it’s due to the Atlantic Ocean’s color on this stretch of the beach, which is murkier than the water to the north or south. Yet, its nickname could have come from the 90’s, when Myrtle Beach was known for its strip joints and nightclubs.

After reading all of this, I was intrigued. I’d have to drink a Dirty Myrtle, gaze at the brown water, and go in a strip joint. Much to my disappointment, I didn’t find Dirty Myrtle Beer, nor did I even see a strip club! Thankfully, though, the Atlantic was clear and blue–probably due to lack of rain. We had great time beaching it; my grandson loved it; the weather cooperated.

I saw no evidence to corroborate the Dirty Myrtle nickname, until I was Ubering toward the beautiful airport:

lawn3 No, I’m not talking about weed, Mary Jane, Kush, I’m talking about the stuff in my yard–or lack of stuff in my yard. Long ago, I chose not to grow winter grass, just summer grass.

In March, I began the task of overseeding, patching, mulching, and fertilizing. The water sprinklers ran three times of day. Unlike other parts of the country, the Southwest rarely gets free water from Heaven. Yet, the dogs enjoy romping through wet grass and leaving paw prints on my floors.

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Over a month has passed and my lawn looks terrible. It’s filled with splotching dead areas which refused to grow–even over the septic tank! I’ve spent copious amounts of money trying to have an attractive, lush lawn to no avail. Then yesterday, I received a water bill from the city. OMG! My water bill had quadrupled! It was almost half a grand! (Water is damn expensive in the desert.)

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I’m in a quandary; I don’t know what to do. For sure, I’m reducing the watering schedule, but should I take out all the grass and put in rock or astro turf? Resod? Spray paint the bare patches green? Or maybe, I simply shouldn’t worry about the dismal look of my backyard. No one can see it but me. The dogs certainly don’t mind.

Once upon a time, someone said to me, “That’s just like you, Sue. You always want to take the easy way out.” I beg to differ. I’m usually up for a challenge, but with temperatures over 100, an inviting pool, an inflatable lounge, and a cold beer, I’m no longer going to fret over my dismal attempt to grow grass. Maybe next year.