What's the worst thing that could happen to me at 7:30 am on Sunday morning? I could be awake, that's what. The only thing worse would be if I heard someone skulking around outside my house, and if I recognized my landlord's voice, and if I couldn't tell what he was saying except for one word: "Overgrown."
Yeah, that's bad. No, I didn't rush out to say howdy. I pretended not to be home, but I couldn't get back to sleep. After he drove away, I got out of bed, threw on some old clothes, and pulled up a bunch of weeds. Maybe he would notice the difference if he came back, maybe not. It doesn't look much better to me, but it's probably something I should have been working on all spring.
The odd thing is that my gardener was here just last Thursday, and I asked him to come by and mow the yard as soon as possible. He didn't think this weekend would be good because of the rain (and he was right about that; it rained off an on both yesterday and today). He said he'd be back when he could, some time in the next two weeks.
That seemed okay, at the time. Now it seems as if I'm living on borrowed time. Every day the weeds and grasses stay this high (or grow higher), I'm asking for trouble from an area I don't want to see trouble coming from. I worried myself sick this morning, and I waited all day for the phone call that would tell me I'm being thrown out on the street.
I did get some work done, but by noon I felt as if I'd been beaten like a rug. Or beaten with a rug, I'm not sure. I collapsed into the recliner and barely moved for four hours. I dozed, watched some racing and baseball, and mourned the loss of my perfect home. I don't want to move. I don't even want to think about it any more, until that phone call comes.