The High Price of Grass

 

lawn3No, 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.

 

 

Swimming with Spiders

Phoenix summers are not for the faint-hearted.  The stifling heat, skin-burning pavement, fiery hot winds are brutal to visitors.  As they exit the jetway at Sky Harbor, they quickly realize they’ve arrived in a place Satan vacates in July.

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When my eldest, Annie, was also my only child, I established a summer routine.  We’d don our swim suits around 11:00 AM, play in the backyard pool for an hour, change into dry clothes, eat lunch, watch a video, and then she’d toddle off to nap time, while I worked on my dissertation.

Unlike high humidity states, wet towels and swim wear were draped on patio chairs; they dried instantly and were easily accessible for the next pool frolic.  On Tuesday morning, I gathered up the swim suits from the patio, pulled up Annie’s suit, and put on my two-piece.  (Yes, I realize I never did/have/will cause men to ogle at my body in a two-piece.  I simply prefer them to those tight one-piecers that hurt in all the wrong places.) And just like every other morning, we frolicked in the pool.

Fortunately, the bathroom had an outside door from the pool.  I helped Annie strip off her wet suit and pull on her shorts and t-shirt.  She ran off to find a Barbie doll as I began my disrobe routine.

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When I tossed my wet bra on the floor, I saw it.  Right there.  In the bra cup.  A big bug.  On closer examination, not an insect…a spider.  And not just any spider.  A FEMALE BLACK WIDOW!

 

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OMG!  It appeared to be alive.  I swished my bra in the toilet and flushed the arachnid away.  Oh, sweet baby Jesus, did I just spend an hour in chlorinated water with a spider on my chest?  Am I like the princess and the pea?

Thankfully, I just laughed off this encounter and didn’t bother to research said spider species.  Had I knew then, what I know now, I would have died from my own imagination.

Female Black Widows, unlike males or juveniles, have a red hourglass shape on the underside of their abdomens.  Unlike males or offspring young, female venom is 15 times more toxic than venom of a prairie rattlesnake!  (Be still my heart.)  While death from a Black Widow bite is extremely rare, human victims are nauseated, experience  muscle aches, and may have difficulty breathing.

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In retrospect, I will never know why Wilhelmina, the Widow, didn’t bite me.  Perhaps, she took pity on my flat chest; she saw first-hand I needed to make up with cotton what God had forgotten.  Perhaps, she was weary of sweating in the relentless sun, spinning a web, and yearning for a splash in the pool.  Or perhaps, she had mated with Wesley the Widow, ate him for breakfast, and wanted to chill.

Regardless of your motivation or lack thereof, I want to belatedly thank you, Wilhelmina,  for sparing me of poison, vomit, pain, and gasps.

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Coming next week:  Spider in my ear….