I’ve already been thinking about crafting a sign to stake in my front yard that reads:
I will make you an unimpressive, but hot, dinner and send you home with beer if you will please help me rake all my leaves and drag them to the curb when they finish falling. There may even be chocolate chip cookies.
Not sure that I’d get a response but that should at least be indicative of my feelings towards raking. I dread it worse than getting a cavity filled. I look at beautiful orange and red leaves that have drifted down and all I can see are calluses on my hands. It is only with great thanks to Jessie that my yard was actually raked last fall, as opposed to me procrastinating right up until snow fall and having to deal with the soaking, heavy leaf disaster in the spring. This year is not looking full of promise.
If THAT looming project wasn’t enough I noticed a lovely present while taking my garbage out this morning. Perched, right in the middle of my roof, is the orange-bagged newspaper I never read. The one that is always carried from the middle of my sidewalk to my recycling. I can’t even say if it is the Flashes or something different, I pay that little attention to what is inside. No ignoring it now, it’s hanging out at a height that does not allow me to toss it to recycling and I don’t own a ladder.
I would be totally tempted to hop up on the roof and remove it, because it looks ridiculous. I can handle always being the last one on my block to take their garbage can in, and always having pretty flowers and horrible, uncared for grass, and unintentionally having a driveway that has been shoveled, (lovingly!), at an angle. But I feel like that newspaper is mocking me. I will not, however, attempt to get it sans ladder, because I did that once. While Aidan was napping last spring and I was working on the yard, I noticed a bunch of branches to be removed on the roof. I am fairly nimble and thought I’d have no problem hoisting myself onto the roof while precariously balancing on the edge of my deck. This sounds absurd, even as I type it. Needless to say, I was wrong. I got about half of my body up and was bent halfway over the edge of the roof with my dirt-streaked legs dangling. I probably could’ve swung my legs up but instead opted to drop back, effectively scraping my entire stomach and fortunately getting a toe back to the deck. Heart thudding at my own stupidity, the branches are still there.
But they are in the back.
I can already tell this newspaper is going to drive me crazy. And now the sign I want to make for the front yard goes something like this:
Dear Dude That Delivers This Paper I Don't Read:
Not nice. Might want to work on your aim, buddy.
Oh, what? You think I should buy a ladder? Yeah. Thanks :)