Pruning

We bought a house that came with bushes.

Like seventy-five katrillion on them.  Spell check says "katrillion" is not a word, but I totally know it is.

And that's how many bushes we have.

They literally surround our entire property, two-deep.

I have a hate/hate relationship with them.  Because right now, they're in their eleven-year-old girl stage of growth.

And we all know how awkward that is.

Don't even get me started on how much I despise trying to mow in between all of them (and if you really want to start something, ask me about how desirous it is to weed eat in between them instead).  I come out covered in these giant red ants and sometimes, if I'm super lucky, I'll come out covered in their smaller cousins and be bitten to death.  It makes me so mad I could just spit.

I got it into my head today that I was going to prune those bushes into beauty.

Problem:  I don't actually know how to prune anything.  This is also why you should never ask me to cut your hair.  Or your beard.  But your back hair, now I can work wonders with that and you'll let me.

I stride confidently and majestically out to the bushes holding the largest pruning shears available at Wal-Mart, and proceed to hack the poor bushes to death.

If they looked like eleven-year-old girls before, they now look like a fifteen-year-old boy's beard - scraggly and patchy and not even remotely attractive.

And then naturally, I think, "I'm just going to go for it and cut them down!  All of them."

The only thing that saves me from acting on that impulse is the fact that I now have to go save The Kid from being poked to death by a stick The Tater procured from the burn pile.

Good call, The Tater.  Good call.