It’s time to call the plant world on the carpet. These passive-aggressive rooted things are messing with my head, not to mention my lawn. The reverse-psychology of my amazing new epiphany put them in their place.
Exquisite lawn care is required in my neck of the woods. As a diligent denizen of the burbs, I am compelled by neighborhood covenants to maintain Pebble Beach standards. This requires mowing, fertilizing, aerating, and on occasion, a rain dance.
Most importantly, it demands a war on weeds.
Weeds. Nature’s nostril hairs. Those bastards will grow anywhere and everywhere. Unless you engage in battle and keep them at bay, your lawn will look like the Green Giant stepped on a land mine.
The other day before mowing, I took the fight to weed-world once again. I pulled. I plucked. I screamed organic epithets. And then it hit me.
Why on earth was I spending all this time, effort and money to get something to grow that didn’t really want to grow (grass), while at the same time I was spending time, effort and money to kill something that did want to grow (weeds).
At first, I laid blame on our vain society, who puts a premium on false beauty and contrived appearances. But that wasn’t it. I dug deeper. I got to the literal root of the problem. You know what it was?
Plants are a–holes.
I don’t know much about plant biology, but I know if you’re alive, you have to have a brain. Thus, logically, that means plants have brains. And if they have brains, somewhere they probably have eyes. In other words, plants are watching us.
Since they’re so damned sedentary, that’s all they can do. They watch and they let life (or death by weed wacker) happen to them. It’s likely that they’re pissed I pull their brothers and sisters out of the earth, entrails and all.
Instead of moving to a safer spot, they go all passive aggressive on us. The grass sends a signal to the weeds: “Grow like mad. We’ll go dormant. And together, we shall defeat the weekend warrior.”
Not so fast, greenies. With my epiphany, I’m fighting back, homo sapiens style.
Let the Weeds Grow Free
The next weekend, instead of going ballistic on the weeds, I did entirely the opposite. I pulled out my flame-thrower, and turned it on the lawn. What followed was a grassy genocide, a literal scorched-earth policy that left the grass black, but the weeds untouched.
Then I pulled out the garden hose and watered the weeds. Thistles, dandelions, and a million other species that grow rampant every which way. While neighbors shot disapproving looks, I lovingly nurtured my weeds. “Grow ahead,” I told them. “The lawn is yours.”
At about week six of this reverse psychological warfare, an amazing thing happened. There must have been a subterranean strategy session, because the passive-aggressive plants suddenly reversed course.
Mindful that I was pleased to see the weeds grow, they sent forth the grass blades once again. The weeds vanished on their own volition, and the grass grew with a hue so verdant it undoubtedly inspired a few weekend warriors’ wet dreams.
How long before the plant world will sniff out my sneaky psychological tactic? I’m not sure. For right now, I’ll sit back with a Belgian beer on my patio and marvel at my beautiful lawn. Plants are a–holes, that’s for sure, but they sure do look purty.