They're Spring-Breakdance Fighting (Part II)

Epic battle: Me. Against the Yard. I don't know why I decided to do it, but I started in on some much-needed yardwork for the 'rents while I was visiting for the break. Most of their downed limbs from last year's hurricane season are still sitting where they fell, and massive tree-pollen balls are rolling around snowdrift-style banks of dead leaves. Unacceptable.

I think I actually do look at disarray (be it yard- or home-related) as a personal affront. And cleaning is my martial art. In fact, I had this same giddy pre-cleaning feeling earlier this year when I helped clean out my grandmother's old apartment. I got to take down the "craft room" which boasted literally decades of unfinised crafts. Two days: no prisoners. Because of my unusual housekeeping skillz, I often wonder what I would have been like if I had lived during the '50s. Would I have been perfectly happy in a domestic arena even when other women weren't? Who knows? Then again, I tend to view my cleaning jones as an OCD issue more than a "uterine" one.

Anyway, I'd only been in town about a day when I decided to attack. The thing about the "stealth-clean" is that it has to be stealthy, so I waited for my dad to leave before I got started. Sadly, though, when he left, he took the key to the tool shed with him. Even so, I was lucky enough to find a rake (sans tines), a broom, and dark-hued garbage bags that I can only suspect were woven together out of recycled rice paper by Austrian nuns. Nevertheless, after a bag or two, I got into a good system: I filled the bag halfway with leaves, broke the branches down, and stuck the twigs in vertically to avoid punctures. When the bag was sufficiently full of twigs, I'd fill the rest of the bag with leaves. Yeah, I know what you're thinking—I should probably patent this cherry bag-management system. But I'm altruistic, man; you can have it for free.

After about a few bags, I got tired of bending over to pick up the branches, so I sat down. The sun was hot on my back and the front perimeter outside cat, who I've chosen to call "Carmine, the Big Ragu," came over and laid down next to me. What started out as strenuous lawn work quickly devolved into a wonderful and inspiring afternoon of lawn improvement, even if I proved a disconcerting picture of lawnkeeping gone inefficient. Maybe the gods were smiling on me. Or maybe it was just the endorphins. All I know is that I've never seen lawn care professionals lolling around serenely in other people's yards, but I'd recommend it.

Four hours later, my dad made it home and rewarded me with his own unique downbeat brand of "dad surprise"—"Looks like somebody's been doing some yard work. Good job." Good, yes. For now. What he can't know is that my foray into his yard is my version of a "throw down." It's not just work, it's war. And, mark my words, I will emerge victorious!