Raising a kid, not grass

We're entering the hell season for allergies.  Late spring and late summer are an orgy of Claritin and Kleenex for me.  Though I can hardly wait to sniffle my way around the State Fair, I will do it it a sleepwalk-like state due to my stacking of Claritin and Benadryl.  I'm going to start chugging local honey like it's a bottle of Jag at a frathouse and bringing my neti pot to bed with me.

Our front yard is a total wreck of weeds.  I can only pull them for about five minutes while wearing a bandana over my nose and mouth like an anarchist outside of an RNC ralley.  Only my bandana is bright orange and I've got tears streaming down my face not from tear gas, but from the pollen and dust and whatever other evil particles these things that are taking over our yard throw off.  After five minutes of furious plucking and twine-bundling I race inside, peel off my clothes directly into the washer, and run into the shower where I scrub every inch of myself like a rabid cokehead.  Then flush each side of my sinuses three times each with my neti pot, drink a gallon of water, slam another Claritin, and collapse my puffy body onto the couch.  I can only two this once every couple of days.

So, neighbors, that is why our yard looks like it does.  I wish we had some teenagers in our neighborhood who would weed our yard for twenty bucks and a pizza.