Daring Young Mom

My approach to gardening this year is to kill kill kill everything in sight.

I wanted to plant some things but there is no room in my yard for useful vegetation because it’s all been taken over by crazy soul-sucking weeds. Blackberry vines that I thought were cute and semi-useful have multiplied by such an alarming rate that I fear they may be organizing to overthrow our family and crush our home. Some of the vines are as thick as small tree trunks.

Then there are the dandelions, the morning glory vines, the moss, the crab grass, the terrifyingly invasive Japanese Knot Weed and all of their friends. Any time I clear an area to plant something, the weeds come in thicker and stronger because they have so much freshly churned earth to grow in.

So this year I’ve got chemicals for the areas around the yard where I won’t be planting other things. And for areas where poison would compromise the soil and surrounding plants, I bought a flame thrower.

For reals.

It’s also known as a garden torch but when I ignite that thing and walk up and down the rows of my vegetative nemeses, an area I like to call “The Kill Zone,” I feel mighty powerful indeed. All of my childhood pyro tendencies and all of my current pent-up frustrations come out as I pull my little red wagon full of propane around the yard, laying waste to every living thing that I don’t choose to let live. It’s kind of magical.

Dan stands by as fire marshal and every once in a while I let him have a turn with the big flaming gun, which he assembled for me.

At one point on Saturday I hit a patch of dried leaves that got a little bit out of control and Dan doused it, worried that someone might call the fire department if they saw the smoke.

I think of fire fighters differently lately.

Laylee’s been playing my Style Savvy game on the DSi. I was hooked for a couple of weeks but got over it pretty fast. It’s a little repetitive and there’s only one body type in the game. But Laylee likes it and I had a fun couple of weeks with it. She was recently telling me all about the shop she’s set up and what her favorite clothing suppliers are.

“I don’t really like Mad Jack,” she said of the goth punk clothing supplier. “It’s my least favorite of all the clothes. I don’t even know who would wear it except like punk rock people and firefighters and stuff.”

Apparently firefighters wear spiked dog collars on their necks, dress nearly all in black, carry their wallets on chains and enjoy wearing their hair in purple striped Mohawks. I hadn’t noticed that before but if they have to come out next time I’m Rambo-ing the weed bed, I’ll keep a closer eye on thier fashion choices.