I don't want to sound sexist here, but it seems unavoidable. One of the only times I keenly feel the lack of a suitable male in my life is when I'm doing yard work. I know, it's ridiculous! I am perfectly capable of mowing, weed-whacking, edging, trimming, hacking down overgrown bushes and then blowing the whole area clean.

I've done it for years and I assume unless I hit the lottery and hire my own yard service, or round up a boyfriend or husband, I'll be doing it until I no longer can. But I don't like it. Wait, that statement doesn't quite encompass my true feelings about yard work. I hate it, despise it, loathe it--there, that's better! It is one of the many reasons I hate summer.

Yesterday, I caught up on three weeks of neglected yard stuff and I'm a hurtin' machine today. My poor arthritis-ridden knees, ankles and back abhor the work as much if not more than the rest of me does. To add to the unpleasantness yesterday, there were easily 3 million flies buzzing, biting and otherwise pestering me. At one point, I said out loud, "Geez, what is this the Amityville Horror?", before running inside and dousing myself in bug repellent, (which did nothing but make me even more desirable to the vexing little scum!).

But I got it all done and later that evening, sitting out in the backyard with my two beautiful German Shepherds, I felt very accomplished. Miserable, but accomplished.