In a word—or non-word, as it turns out—home ownership has much to do with being anti-Nature. Not, like, "Nature's no good" or "I hate Nature", but more like, "Why can't Mother Nature keep her kids in line? What kind of mother is she, anyway?!"
Okay, I admit that I'm just a little battle worn. Nursing a pair of matching beestings, each strategically placed equidistant from the poison ivy sores in their respective locales, I am quite literally itching to finish ripping out seven ugly bushes that line the back of our home and harass passers-by with their leafy tentacles. To Nature's great credit, reproduction is her strong suit—these suckers shoot their root systems every which way, popping up little micro-bushes all over the place. And not just all over the easy-to-excavate place, either. No, we're talking about under and around such interesting artifacts as the main cable, television, and electrical trunk lines to the house.
Mike pauses to scratch.
Anyway, I'm starting to get the hang of it. Four down, three to go. Another six hours in direct 98-degree blistering sunlight, sweat dripping uninhibited down my buzzed head (I have recently realized one of the benefits that a non-trivial amount of hair provides), and I'll be free of those bushes.
Then I can move on to the other 2,371 home ownership responsibilities.
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