Alternate title: Why I Killed My Husband’s Blue Fescue
Which is very different from the time I almost killed Sinatra.
Mike and I have been married for a very long time now. I would almost say too many to count but he might think that gives him an excuse to skimp out on an anniversary gift.
We’ve been through an awful lot in all those years. There was the time I accidentally broke his favorite Homer Simpson mug. And, the time he tried to kill my butterfly bush. But none of those things compare to The Great Chive Fiasco.
Once upon a time I had a small section of the yard that I designated as an herb garden. I planted rosemary, thyme, basil, oregano, lemon balm, pineapple sage, and one teeny, tiny, garlic chive. Who doesn’t like a bit of chopped chive now and then? The thing is, there is always such a thing as too much of a good thing, unless your name is Mike.
Let me paint the picture for you…
One, hazy, fall afternoon as the autumn sun lit the backyard in a pale, golden halo, Mike was puttering through his beloved redwood trees and pampered sago palms. In between trimming his plants he paused to admire the lovely white blossoms perched atop the slender stalks of the garlic chives. What was this? A dried flower? With… my goodness!!!! Tiny brown seeds peeping out from between the browned petals.
“Oh ho!” Mike chuckled to himself as he marveled in the miracle of nature’s bounty. Why, surely he was destined to see that this seed went forth and multiplied as nature intended, he’d be doing Mother Nature herself a favor as he spread this seed amongst his wife’s carefully placed daylilies and herbs.
He spread the seeds all around the backyard, igniting a bone of contention that would go down infamously in the history book of our marriage. Year after year, they seemed to get worse, replicating like gremlins, embedding themselves in plants, springing up in places around the yard where Mike would swear he hadn’t put any seeds. I think back to his version of this story and in my mind’s eye I see the truth; Mike, in his autumn induced delirium, prancing around like some sort of fairy sprinkling pixie dust, shaking these chive blossoms, brown seeds flying like seasonal confetti.
Which brings us to this morning.
It has been a ridiculously hot summer. Today it is supposed to be 88 degrees and that, my friends, is downright balmy for August. Mike had to leave very early this morning and as I sipped my coffee and watched a hummingbird in the backyard, I saw them; the million clumps of garlic chives mocked me as they peeped out from between my butterfly iris, and my daylilies, and the heather.
These chives had morphed into something evil. Straggly, smelly, and THEY WERE STARTING TO SPROUT BLOOMS. AGAIN.
It was too much for me to bear. Too much. The thought of these chives going to seed again sent me into a whirling rage and before I knew it I was out in the backyard getting a shovel and the trash can. After I paused to enjoy the cool morning and pet the dog, of course.
I dragged the trash can over to the bed and stabbed the shovel into the first clump. Clump after clump went into the can until I came to a clump that had sprouted up and completely penetrated Mike’s clump of ornamental blue fescue. A maniacal grin spread across my face because there was only ONE way to get that clump of garlic chive out of there. I paused as a wave of guilt swept over me… for about 3 – 5 seconds because at that point I realized that in my steps back and forth from the trash can to the flower bed – I HAD STEPPED IN DOG POOP.
Dog poop is Mike’s job.
It took about 20 seconds to dig that clump of chive-ridden fescue out of the ground and drop it into the trash can and I may or may not have been giggling the entire time. And for the record, that picture is NOT Mike’s blue fescue because it was riddle with nasty garlic chives!!!
I turned and went back for the next clump, working my way around the yard…
Pop… gurgle… fizzz… pop pop…
It took about 3 seconds for it to dawn on me what those sounds meant and by the time it did, it was almost too late.
There I was bent over, shovel in hand, foot on the top of the shovel pushing it deep into the ground beside the next clump when THE SPRINKLERS CAME ON.
That’s right… from almost 2 hours away Mike had managed to exact his revenge for the blue fescue.
Well played, Mike.