The evil within

I’m going to confess something that may change your view of me. So if you like to think of me the way you currently do, stop reading here.

Okay. Still with me? Good. Here’s my big dark secret. I like to kill plants. Now, hold on a minute, let me explain. I’m not talking about trees, flowers or my own home-grown tasty vegetables. I’m talking about the effing weeds that are overtaking my yard and make me want to chop off my green thumb in frustration, especially since it’s probably my fault in the first place.

Let’s take a trip back in time to the days when we were new home owners, when I was overjoyed to survey my new domain and the endless stream of home improvement projects were just a twinkle in our newlywed eyes. The best part was that I had a large, albeit overgrown, yard to do with as I wished (since the hubs is more motor, less yard inclined). The first step was clean up. I kept coming across large patches of mature, dried out tangles of plants. Any time I’d try to pull a clump out – whoosh – out would spray a volley of missals. Even if I just brushed by a plant. Whoosh. In my stupidity naivete, I thought it was funny. And would call to Rob, “Hey hon, look at these crazy weeds! Watch what they do! hee hee” Whoosh, whoosh here, whoosh whoosh there, whoosh whoosh all over the damn place. Then it quit being funny, but since I had no choice but to pull them, I helped these weeds spread unknown generations of their devilish offspring.

Flash forward to every spring and fall since and I have to deal with the consequences of my actions. These dang weeds are the most resistant essohbees that I have ever encountered. They even camouflage themselves depending on what they are growing in. And they will grow in anything and everything, and everywhere and all the time.

They must be caught before they seed and start to dry, and let me tell you, the whooshing season comes fast.

Back to the kill lust. As I said, these suckers are resistant. They don’t die in the freeze or for lack of water. They only way I’ve found to put an end to them is pulling by hand and spraying the holy hell out of them with RoundUp. In my battles, I have discovered that whenever I can win a round against these persistent devil weeds, I feel a sense of joy. Joy that I’ve yanked their little green lives out of the ground and stomped and strangled them until they scream little weedy death throes. I imagine my roses and lilacs are thanking me for the clear space around their limbs, and I’m the Queen of May despite my murderous tendencies.

I was looking at the yard the other day and realized that there was a literal carpet of these weeds on nearly every inch of my domain – worse than I have ever seen even right after my whooshing days. We’ve had a stretch of beautiful fall weather the last week and I knew that my window was closing if I wanted to try to kill this crop before the rain came back.

Normally I’m all for trying out eco-friendly products. I’ve cleaned with vinegar and baking soda, use dye and scent free laundry soap, blah blah blah. But when it comes to herbacides – the nastier, more chemically compounded and unnatural the better. (when I’m at the farmer’s market, I keep hoping some black market operative is going to offer me some of the professional stuff. “Psst, lady. I got whatcha lookin for right here. Killoweedo Formula X-18.”) Because I want these weeds dead, and the seeds too scared to pop out of the ground.

There’s actually another reason I don’t use organic herbicide and here’s my reasoning. Let’s say there is a “natural” product that is made using a plant found in the jungles down south. To get said product, the company uses underpaid local child labor, interferes with the area’s ecosystem by overharvesting, transports it back to the production facility using some god-awful diesel barge ships and compounds it using some crazy chemical to distill the good stuff. Doesn’t really seem like a good trade-off to me. Give me a gallon of the good stuff that’s guaranteed to provide a killing spree that Dahmer would give a nod to, and I’ll send a little check the Sierra Club in contrition.

So this weekend I spent the better part of one of the last non-rainy days dousing the carpet of evil, feeling like Tony Montoya of Bonanza Court, with my high-powered trigger sprayer locked and loaded. “Say hello to my leetly fwiend.” After a careful sweep of my domain, I sit back and hope that I have done my worst, feeling no pity for these greenie meanies who will. Not. Desist.

Hopefully I haven’t shocked you with my admission of my murderous side, but we all have a vice, now don’t we?

(Mother Nature, if you’re reading my confession. Please try to understand. I know I walk with evil in my heart for what is after all one of your creations, but really. Isn’t this a little much? I can handle the dandelions, I can manage those weird purple weeds that are kind of stinky in a good way when I pull them, but give me a little break with these things.)