Tale of the Black Thumb

After what was a terrible depression-inducing sweltering summer, we have now endured what is the 8th-warmest winter recorded in Oklahoma. Needless to say, we’ve had a dearth of moisture in this state. And thus, our yard is, well, less than fabulous.

See, Internets, when we moved in, our house was something like this:

Cue the sighing.  Yes, it was good. It was verrrry good. And frankly, we’ve done a great job of keeping it alive. Erm, or, our yard guys do a good job of keeping it alive.

But now? Well. It’s more like, um, this:

We desperately want it to return back to this:


Internets, I don’t really know what happened. I mean, I guess we’ve been kinda, um, well, busy… I mean, did I tell you that Simon was named the 6th most awesomest realtor in the metro area this month? Yup. True. (Except I think they termed it something a little more professional than “most awesomest.”)  Despite this, we have started to notice the distinct lack of life in our yard. Is it hiberating? Is it … dormant? Is it something slightly less than alive?

The yard guy stops by yesterday and rings the doorbell. I absolutely hate when he wants to talk to me about matters related to the yard. I mean, does it exactly look like I have a green thumb happening here?  Does it look at all like I have answers? The only thing I manage to keep alive around here is my child.

He holds his hand out and gestures around the front yard. “Sooo…” he starts.  “Did you kill the grass or what?

At this moment, I am speechless.  I feel suddenly like I am once again a study abroad student in France where I can only use halting childish French to express myself. “Um, erm, uh, …”  Then all I can find myself doing is making what Peter Mayle would term the typical Gallic shrug.

From —> The “Gallic shrug” gesture has a number of meanings:

  • It’s not my fault
  • I don’t know
  • I doubt it can be done
  • I don’t really agree

And this is what I looked like doing it:


I mumble something about how clearly we need help, but I’m not the one to make the final decision on it, you should call my husband, blah blah blah.

And then in a moment so ironically perfect, as I back up towards the house feeling embarrassed that I couldn’t keep grass alive, my child runs up to me with a weed in hand and says, “MOM! LOOK at the beautiful flowers we grew!”

Yes, honey. ::sigh::


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