My bush screamed for Yard Dyke!

Every spring I become enamored by the idea of having a perfect yard and garden. This year I had decided I didn’t give a damn anymore and had set my mind to hiring an attractive, young, well-built Hispanic guy to do the yard work instead. I had dreams of lounging around on my back porch sipping a daiquiri and looking sultry in the intense heat. I could watch the sweat glisten on his shirtless and flawlessly tanned chest. At some point he would turn around to return my lusty stare and then stroll purposely toward me with his tight jeans riding low enough on his hips to show just a tantalizing peep of pale silky skin.

Standing over my lounger, he would reach for the daiquiri I poured for him and his full, pouty lips would form their first and highly anticipated words to me:

“Girl, it is HOT out here. This bitch needs to go home before she just falls out. I’ve got me a man coming over tonight and the only thing I want to be hot for is him! That’s gonna be one-fifty for today. Can I use your shower before I go to the gym?”

Shit.

I just fantasized up a hot, gay Hispanic yard man. Just my luck. I guess this means Yard Dyke is coming back this year.

I am Yard Dyke. Beneath my delicate appearing exterior, deep in the reaches of my shallow little soul, resides a woman that can rip up bare roots with her ungloved hands. I’m G.I. Jane with a push mower and weed wacker. I don’t need any stupid ass gloves or knee pads, Yard Dyke is over all that.

I became Yard Dyke with my current house. We have a probably half an acre of ugly, dehydrated grass that manages to grow every year despite watering restrictions and a drought. Add to that a variety of high maintenance hedges that must be cut or they grow wildly askew, weeds that can grow up to ten feet in height, and of course the mosquito problem. I do get a break around January and February from the ceaseless yard work, but it goes quickly.

I would get the Teenager to do the work, but he is useless with power tools. He almost cut off his finger last Sunday cutting the hedges. Luckily he has a long-suffering (she doesn’t know she’s long-suffering yet, so please keep that to yourself) girlfriend that was able to finish for him and drag the cuttings to the burn pile. Yes, we get to burn here year round and that makes all the yard work bearable. Yard Dyke loves to burn things as it makes her look even more butch. Nothing like standing  over a huge pile of yard waste with a chainsaw in one hand and a gasoline soaked roll of toilet paper in the other.

My husband has a thing for Yard Dyke and follows her around while she is using a machete, telling her how sexy she is. Pervert. He just wants her to keep doing the yard work so that he can sit in the air conditioned house playing video games with the Teenager.

Morphing into Yard Dyke is simple. First slather yourself with 100 sunblock. Cover unbrushed hair with ball cap. Put on t-shirt that the Teenager has outgrown or borrow large t-shirt from husband. Knee length shorts and my favorite, crocs with socks. Spritz Cutter all over yourself like body scent. Oh, and chapstick. Don’t forget that, as Yard Dyke doesn’t want crusty lips. I can be out the door and working in about five minutes.

Make sure you program K.D. Lang and Indigo Girls into the iPod.

Gotta go, the hardware store up the street has a sale on Scott’s Weed-n-Feed.

Love and Kisses,

Yard Dyke