Oh, No! Not Again!

It’s been a long, hot, stressful summer of extreme heat, rain, tears, and frustration. Working in the yard was and still is like digging a bottomless pit in the desert. There’s no end to the misery, as if I’m being smothered to death by a vicious monster of chaos.

But yesterday was my day to get back on track. I am going to finish one natural area before the sun goes down if it kills me. And if it kills me, I won’t have to worry with it anymore.

When we first moved here, thirty-plus years ago, I had a brainy idea to make a natural area down our long driveway and border it with rocks. And that’s what we did. The rocks were free, thanks to a nearby farmer, allowing us to dig up as many rocks as we wanted. And seven truckloads later, we had enough rocks piled in the yard to build a house!

This summer, I got another brainy idea. Let’s undo it all. I can’t keep up with it anymore. It’s too hard, and I’m too old and stressed out to mess with it. It was good in its day, but I can’t do it anymore. It’s got to go. Low maintenance is my motto these days. Besides, it won’t take that long, a few weeks, tops.

HA! Five months later, my low-maintenance landscaping dream became a Freddy Krueger nightmare of rocks piled sky-high in the backyard, scattered in the front yard, the side yard, and even in the neighbor’s yard, who got several trailer loads for his natural area.

I never do anything halfway. It’s either all or nothing, so I created other natural areas in the front and backyard and embellished them with rocks, creating little landscape monsters to grow up and devour me when I get old and haggard with only one brain cell left.

So, back to the beginning. The sun was going down, I was hot, tired, and hungry, but feeling relieved that I was almost done. I couldn’t wait to get cleaned up and maybe celebrate what’s left of my birthday.

My husband pulled up on the lawnmower, and as we chatted, I noticed tiny mosquitoes swarming around the hole in the ground where I was sitting. Then I noticed something else. Something mean and sinister, like devils from the pit of hell. Suddenly, like a turtle in slow motion, I scrambled to my feet and yelled, “Yellow jackets!”

I can’t believe this! How stupid can I be? I thought he killed them all the last time. Same place, same stupid rock, same idiot repeating the same episode that happened a few short months ago.

Yellow Jackets! Singing, “Happy Birthday to you” while setting my arms and legs on fire. Visions of my last encounter shot me into panic mode as I hobbled into the house, moaning and kicking myself in the butt. Splashing cold water on my arms and legs, my husband yelled, “Where’s the Benadryl? Where’s the Peroxide? Where’s the alcohol? And I just wanted him to shut up, get the gun, and shoot me!

My husband called 911, and I promised myself I wouldn’t spend ten days in hell before finally marching my butt to Urgent Care. And since it was already closed, I climbed into the ambulance and went straight to the ER.

Three agonizing hours later, my name was finally called, and relief was on the way. I’d already received a shot of Benadryl in the ambulance with no side effects. Then came the IV and three vials of medication. Still no side effects. But when the nurse added a more potent dose of Benadryl into the concoction, I knew this was the day I was gonna die! My number’s up! Saint Peter’s waiting, arms open wide at the pearly gates, singing, “Happy birthday to you!”

Well, I didn’t die, I just had a frightening reaction to the medication, which caused a full-blown panic attack and visions of the Grim Reaper pounding at my door.

I guess you can’t live for seventy-nine years without a little danger and excitement. That would be boring. Besides, grandkids and great-grandkids don’t want to hear about Cinderella and Tinker Bell these days. They want to hear about Grandma getting run over by a reindeer, and how much blood poured out, and how many stitches she got, and if it hurt! Real grandma stories with bloody meat on their bones!