The Carpet Lawn

The first signs of spring are starting to appear. The weather is getting warmer, that fresh smell of sunshine is beginning to touch the air, bugs are starting to appear in my shower and freak me out. All around my neighborhood flowers are getting ready to bloom and lawns are thinking about getting green (possibly… It’s really hard to say what lawns are thinking, they’re so enigmatic).

For some reason the spring thaw has me contemplating a favorite yet rather bizarre subject: The guy with a carpet for a lawn.

This contemplation may be a bit baffling to you. If it isn’t, you’re from Worland. For those of you not lucky enough to be from the Land of the Wor, I shall explain. There is a gentleman in our fair village that has made the decision to forgo grass for carpet. Yes, he really has. His lawn is a carpet. Or rather, a compilation of many carpets.


For those curious souls who want to see a carpet lawn for themselves, here it is! I seem to remember the carpet lawn of my childhood as being much more colorful, but perhaps I embellished it a bit with my kid brain.

How does this man mark spring and the summer to come? Does he step out of his front door, inhale the beginnings of the mildew as it’s thawing, and think, “Oh yes! Spring is in the air!”? Does he turn to his best gal and say, “Almost time to take our shoes off and squish around in the carpet. There is nothing, NOTHING, like the feel of damp carpet between your toes on a lovely sunshine-y day, don’t you agree?”? It just isn’t summer until you see that first lady bug making its way across the Berber.

Is it obvious that I’ve spent some time thinking about the carpet lawn? Definitely not a lot, like, a totally normal amount of time. I for sure haven’t driven by it every chance I get just to gaze in wonder. The point is, I have so many questions, so much I would love to say if I ever got the opportunity to speak with this self-made landscaper of carpet.

Here the short list of questions I would ask if ever given the opportunity to interview this intriguing character:

1. How did you arrive at the decision to put down carpet?
2. Why not rocks? Or even just dirt?
3. What was it about carpeting your front yard that first drew you to the idea?
4. What type of carpet is best suited to an outdoor space?
5. Does it need to be vacuumed? Or scotch guarded?
6. Did you have to put down those spikey rulers to make it stay or did it just lay there on its own?
7. Do you change the carpet when it gets worn out?
8. Did you have to pay for it, and if so, at what point does it become too expensive to continue carpeting?
8. Did you ever consider hardwood or laminate? They have some really nice linoleum now that looks like tile!

God, I’d love to crawl inside that man’s brain, just for a minute. I’d probably crawl back out looking like I’d just seen the Ark of the Covenant, but it might be worth it just to know why. Why?!? I would no longer have a face, but I would know how was this idea was born. I would know what manner of dark-dwelling, unnatural bugs live under there and how one would fight them.

Yes, spring. Beautiful spring. Harbinger of toxic smells rising from a man’s carpet lawn. It’s the small things such as this that make us truly glad to be alive.

P.S. I hope you don’t think I’m being mean in writing about this fascinating subject. I am writing from a place of sincere affection and interest in a man and subject not oft (if ever) considered (by anyone but me, that is). You just don’t see that kind of stuff these days and it is to be treasured.

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Did you miss me? I missed you!

So, it’s been awhile, hasn’t it my friends? I know we’ve already discussed how weird and lame it is for me to call you my friends, but I’m pretty weird and lame so I’m not really sure where to go with that… Anyway, you may have noticed that I didn’t blog last week (if you loved me you would have noticed). I have a very good reason… Or an okay one at least. I’m trying to remodel this blog so it’s not a giant cheese ball and so the “theme” is a little more cohesive. Insofar as the barely coherent ramblings of a slightly deranged housewife can be a “theme.”

Let’s just say I am having little to no luck making it look the way I want it to and I am frustrated beyond belief by the whole process… I wish you could see me with my hair literally standing on end screaming at my computer that I “just want it to be preeeeettttyyyyyyyy” and then slumping over in grief and despair. It’s quite something I’m told (by my husband, who doesn’t even look up from his book anymore when I start sobbing).

I was hoping that this week I could say to you all, “Okay, I didn’t blog last week, but here’s why: Ta da!!!” and then you would all be like, “Hey, that’s better! What a beautiful layout! Totally worth missing out on the little gem that is Mandy’s blog!” In my imaginings you all really like my blog and missed it terribly when it wasn’t there.

Unfortunately, I have no freaking clue what I’m doing and I have yet to make my blog pretty. So, maybe by next week I’ll be able to say, “Ta da!!!” But for now, please just pray for me. Because with my web design skills, that’s the only way it’s ever going to happen.

Blame it on Gramma.

When I was young, I dreamed about getting married. Dresses, knights in shining armor, poetry, the whole generic sappy thing. It was quite pathetic. I wish I could go back in time, slap myself, and say, “For God’s sakes woman, dream about traveling the world, not snaring a man!!! What is wrong with you???” And then younger me would be like, “Hey, I could have done without the slap, that was really mean!” And I’d be like, “Yeah, sorry, just trying to add a little drama.” Anyway, I digress…

The point is, I blame it on my Gramma.

“Well, that’s a little weird,” you might say. How is this crazy girl’s romantic mental illness her poor old gray haired Gramma’s fault? Well, I’ll tell you why… That sweet old lady? She had a secret passion… A dark habit. Yes, dear old Gramma had a taste for the bosom heavers, the smut novels, a bit of the “dirty pages” if you will. And one day when I was at her house, all of 13 years old, I stumbled upon one and I was never the same.

That’s right, Gramma got me started. I would sneak one of her little novels home under my shirt every time I went over there. Yes, it’s true! I did it!!! I stole from my own Grandmother!!! Just to get a taste of that sweet, sweet romance. I was an addict and I didn’t care how I got my fix.

The historical ones were how I preferred to get my kicks, but really… I would take anything I could get. For a 13 year old kid in a town with watchful librarians, sexy novels are hard to come by.

(This was my favorite one… I read it at least 5oo times.)

I would rush upstairs when I came home and hide them under my bed, then feverishly read them when I was supposed to be sleeping. Growing up as a pretty sheltered, innocent girl, reading those books was as naughty to me as smoking a cigarette… It was wrong, wrong, wrong, filling my head with that sleaze but I did it anyway. Gram would always tell people she skipped over the steamy parts, but I can tell you something… I didn’t.

Had I only known the consequences.

Those damn novels warped my little brain. For years after that, my romance-novel saturated mind would swirl and spin in pink cotton candy visions of that perfect happily ever after scene as the story book closes at the end of a fairy tale.

A deadly combination of Gramma’s novels and teenage hormones created a sort of love gas in my brain that clouded my judgement about boys for years to come… I envisioned a heart of chivalry and gold inside each dorky college boy that quite simply wasn’t there… I obviously had a very active imagination. Going through my old photo albums is beyond cringe-worthy. If a heart of gold or any semblance of chivalry was in there, it was quite well hidden.

So the moral of the story is, friends, keep your daughters away from the romance novels. They were quite obviously written by 50 year old spinster virgins, but 13 year old ones can’t tell the difference. Their little psyches will be warped well into their 20’s by that stuff… And they will never again be able to think of a man’s part as anything but “turgid manhood,” even in anatomy class.

P.S. If you could all avoid telling my Gram that I blogged about her personal stash of “lady porn” I’d appreciate it.

A comedy podcast by an idiot and her brother.