Gonna need an ocean of calamine lotion

I’ve been itching to stop itching. The scratching began with a little reddish patch that worked its way over one shin, jumped across my crotch and took over a thigh, then rapidly took hold of small bits of turf around my belly, arms and neck.

Can you say uncomfortable? The problem, as usual, can be traced back to that moment after I left the place with the printing press two years ago and decided I would conquer my lawn. As I’ve reported here ad nauseum, the war with my yard has taken a toll – bumps, scrapes, cuts and falls; mosquito and tick bites; sunburn, battle fatigue and, now, poison ivy.

Ignoring all those three-leafed weeds as I go about pulling them from my lawn doesn’t mean they will ignore me. In fact, I’ve scratched my way across my yard for two years, breaking out now and again with small signs of the toxic stuff. I won those battles, suffering only a little discomfort. Not this time.

After nights of little sleep, bathing in calamine lotion and becoming addicted to Benadryl, I finally waved the white flag and called for medical assistance. My doctor sent in the big guns – Prednisone, served up in massive dosage. After just a day, I could sense the tide of battle was turning and victory seemed possible.

Now, a week later, the battle of Ivy fields is a fading memory and mankind, yet again, has prevailed over the expansionist hopes of plant life – at least its impact. Unfortunately, the war rages on; my yard calling out to me for help. It remains a gruesome mess of damaged turf, weeds and debris.

My days of rest are coming to an end and I will soon be grabbing my weed wacker and heading back into battle. I know that glory hides in the dawn, tucked behind a fallen pine cone, buried underneath a blooming dandelion. I can hear the mowers starting up now, my neighbors puttering about in support. Damn, how I love the smell of exhaust in the morning!

Do you need a license to work in the yard?

You just can’t be too rich, too thin, or own too many extension cords. I’ll explain.

A year or so ago I got the bright idea that it would be fun to, ah, start doing my own yard work. It’s an opportunity to get outside, back with nature. I could tap into that part of me that I’ve pushed away for years, that guy who loves to play in the dirt and get his hands a little dirty.

So I grabbed Miss Wendy and we headed over to that warehouse place, filled with just about everything you need to keep a yard spruced up and shiny. We bought a lawn mower, trimmer and hedger, weed whacker and blower, grass seed, fertilizer, potting soil and a bunch of plants.

I also bought an extension cord for the hedger, long enough when coupled with a cord I had bought years ago to reach just about any spot in my yard – front, sides and way into the back. We’re talking 150 feet of the stuff, enough cord to whack away at the hedges anywhere on my property.

Did I mention that you just can’t be too rich, too thin, or own too many extension cords? Why yes, I think I did. The problem is that when I get into my hedging zone I have a tendency to focus on the foliage and not on the cord. That’s what I was doing Wednesday afternoon when I caught sight of a spark arcing in my direction.

The crackling sound only lasted an instant. After all, once the hedger cuts through the cord there’s no more juice to keep things up and running. That’s the good news. The not so good news is my new extension cord was now in two pieces.

This, ah, has happened before. In fact, since Wendy and I bought that first 100-foot cord last spring, I’ve managed to cut my way through not one, not two, but three cords in less than a year. I’ve spliced a few back into shape, only to butcher them again. Truth to tell, I’m probably not the guy you want handling power tools around your family.

I’m thinking seriously of replacing the electrical hedger I have now with a gas-powered model. If you happen to be around my neck of the woods and smell smoke, call 911.

And Mother Nature wins by a knockout

Yes, I know. This photo is painful. So think how it must feel to actually be me, the person all puffed up with histamines. My intentions were good, but there are just some things that should be left to professionals. Let me explain.

My undoing began several months ago when I figured I had the time to start doing my own yard work. Bad idea.

At the very least, I was certain I could save several thousand bucks by getting rid of my yard service – a mow and blow crew that, well, mostly mowed and blowed!

So I immediately went out and spent several hundred dollars on lawn stuff – new mower, gas-fueled blower and weed-whacker, electric hedge trimmer, safety goggles, gloves and trash bags, top soil, compost and lawn seed.

Did I mention this was a bad idea? Why, yes, I think I did.

In this summer of hell, when temperatures have hovered in the mid-90s in the Land of Cotton, even if you have a green thumb – which, btw, I don’t – it has probably turned brown by now and shriveled to dust. At least that’s what has happened to my lawn. Anything green you spot around my yard could best be classified as a weed.

For some reason I’ve yet to figure out, the heat kills grass, plants and shrubs while invigorating crabgrass, dandelions, ragweed and ground ivy.

To use a baseball metaphor, it’s the bottom of the fifth and Team Nature is tossing a no-hitter against Team Nor. Worse, Team Nor is just about to be placed on the disabled list. Why, you might ask.

And I might explain that while managing to kill off most of my lawn and laying waste to the shrubbery around my house, I’ve been bitten by at least one tick – can you say Lyme Diseases – and spotted two others crawling over my body; gotten poison ivy, at least twice; fell off a ladder while trimming a 14-foot hedge; and – now would be a good time to take another look at that photo above – was recently stung on my left eyelid by a frickin’ wasp while working in the yard!

So before I make the lovely Miss Wendy a widow, I’m thinking of finding a new way to spend my extra time, something simple and safe, like joining the army and becoming one of those guys who defuses bombs. At least then Team Nor would have a 50-50 chance of winning a game or two! Or, better yet, perhaps I should take up recreational drinking. Sounds like a plan.