If you've read this blog or listened to me talk at all this week, you know that I planted winter grass last weekend. My obsession with this process hinges in part on my seeming inability to grow things. Even the beautiful geraniums that thrive in everyone else's fall yards...well, let's just say they look more like a grim Halloween prop in mine. So this week has been all about the front lawn. I water it, I gaze at it, I guard it (stupid birds!)...all in hopes that it won't let me down and be a giant billboard of failure to all my neighbors.
Great news: I have grass! Granted, there's still growing to be done...but isn't it gorgeous?
So that crazy woman doing a victory dance in the front yard this morning? Yep, that was me.
And because many of you already know I am what one professor entitled "A Paranoid Overachiever," you'll be happy to know that MY grass came up three days ahead of the schedule any of my Grass Advisors (i.e., neighbors, co-workers, Home Depot employees, and cats who are angry because they lost their lovely dirt playground) thought it would. Just in time, I might add, for this morning's meeting with my landscaper. Since I'm going to tell him I'm not going to give him $10,000 to do my yard, I'm very grateful that the grass played along and looked New and Improved.