A few weeks ago, a friend and I were driving through her neighborhood when she dropped this philosophical bomb on me: “You can pretty much tell what kind of person lives in a house by the way it looks on the outside.” I thought about that as we drove along, speculating on yards and homes along our route…I guess that’s true…
“For instance,” she said, “that yard is a wreck—I’ll bet you a disorganized, messy person lives there. And that house—so cute!—that person has got it together.”
I nodded without thinking, really, but as we drove my mind drifted to what kind of billboard my house might post about me, and by the time I got home I had worked myself into a tizzy because I know good and well that when I pull into my driveway, the theme song from
“Sanford & Son” starts playing somewhere… (If you were not privileged enough to grow up in the 70’s and 80’s, you must click here to experience the magic piece of Americana that is Sanford & Son. Otherwise, you will never have a full life.)
OK, so back to my yard: junkyard is the only word for it. (But without Lamont’s cool truck.) Kid toys strewn across the yard, baseball equipment laying on its side for weeks, a broken mini-trampoline next to a jacked-up picnic table-turned-slam-dunk-vault beside the basketball goal.
OK, so back to my yard: junkyard is the only word for it. (But without Lamont’s cool truck.) Kid toys strewn across the yard, baseball equipment laying on its side for weeks, a broken mini-trampoline next to a jacked-up picnic table-turned-slam-dunk-vault beside the basketball goal.
Our shrubs look like they’re trying to grow on the side of a mountain in the desert somewhere; the grass is anemic; dog toys and trash and abandoned yard tools and all kinds of ugly live in our front yard. The back yard I won’t even talk about. We’re not exactly yard people.
So instead of flying in the driveway on two wheels like I do every other day, I actually checked out my own yard with an objective eye that afternoon, noticing the ivy growing up the side of the house and the water hose tangled in the front bushes. Oh my gosh, our neighbors must hate us. We are single-handedly bringing down the property value of our street. What kind of people ARE we??
Motivated by pride and the fear of being judged for the miserable landscaper / housekeeper I am (as if people had not already come to their own conclusions before this moment), that afternoon I did one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever done.
So instead of flying in the driveway on two wheels like I do every other day, I actually checked out my own yard with an objective eye that afternoon, noticing the ivy growing up the side of the house and the water hose tangled in the front bushes. Oh my gosh, our neighbors must hate us. We are single-handedly bringing down the property value of our street. What kind of people ARE we??
Motivated by pride and the fear of being judged for the miserable landscaper / housekeeper I am (as if people had not already come to their own conclusions before this moment), that afternoon I did one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever done.
On the front of our house are two gorgeous window boxes that my husband had made for me for our anniversary a few years ago. They are wrought iron and hand forged and very French-looking, and they’re the only pretty thing on the outside of our entire property. I LOVE them.
But I cannot even grow a good batch of mold, so those gorgeous window boxes are always empty or sporting pitiful strands of brown foliage hanging on for dear life. I’ll spend money on plants, break my back filling the planters, and they’ll look great for about 12 days…then the slow, brown death begins.
I have great intentions, but I just cannot keep plants alive. I can barely keep my family alive, for Pete’s sake. And in a weak moment of vulnerability and self-consciousness that afternoon, while considering what the outside of my house might be screaming about my character, I made a mad dash for Hobby Lobby and filled those babies up with fake flowers.
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