It is admirable to be positive, I tell myself. To think pixie dust thoughts and believe that people are generally good ... smart.
But honestly, I can only think of pixie dust for so long before drawing the inevitable conclusion that Peter Pan was a child abductor. Being positive isn't in me. It just ISN'T. And I can only go on thinking positive thoughts for so long before someone kills it, before someone sends me totally over the edge, into cynicism and torrents of swear words and irate phone calls to the man crazy enough to marry me and still answer his phone when he sees my number.
This is the saga of Steve.
Steve is a man who comes 'round our house about once every six weeks. I don't know his last name, I don't know precisely what he does for a living, and I never get a forewarning of when he might suddenly appear outside our bedroom window at 6:30 in the morning while I am wrapped in a towel.
My landlady hired him.
She hired him because we have no weedeater. This is not an oversimplification. This man has no purpose coming to our house, unannounced at the frikking ass crack of dawn, except to hack down the weeds that grow rampant through our untamed yard.
Let's not get me started on why the landlady pays this strange man to weedeat when she won't pay to put locks that use the same keys on all the exterior doors, or fix the leaking basement, or even put three-prong outlets in the house. Because that's another story. Let's just talk about what Steve does.
Steve, as far as I can tell, is the most incompetent outdoorsman in the HISTORY OF EVER.
This man would not know an oak tree if the one in our backyard came to life and rapped him over the head with one of its branches.
This morning, I saw Steve mow circles around a weed — A WEED — that had simply grown taller than all the other weeds in the lawn. It's still out there; I can see it. ONE WEED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MOTHER FLIPPING LAWN.
Perhaps Steve is here this morning to hack off limbs of a perfectly healthy bush, ignoring the COMPLETELY DEAD trees in the backyard. Perhaps he is here to cut to the ground the peony transplants I took from my dead grandmother's house. Again.
So when I heard Steve on the lawn this morning, I told Boy to inform Steve that we had hydrangea transplants in the yard, and that Steve should be aware that they were there, and should not mow over them. Because they are important to me.
Boy does this. Steve does not weedeat ANYWHERE near the small transplants; in fact, the entire 40 square feet of lawn around them looks like a corn field.
But that is fine. If Steve cannot tell the difference between grass and a bush, then he should not weedeat. HE SHOULD NOT WEEDEAT.
Steve decides that he can't simply leave the house without ruining something that I value, something healthy, something growing, SOMETHING BEARING FRUIT.
That damn stupid asshole.
So he hacks — cuts, in half — a blackberry bush (a bush I had intended to use to can blackberry jam, which is my FAVORITE) that was LOADED with semi-ripe fruit. Then, to prove his professionalism, he strews the hacked pieces all over our porch and the yard.
He doesn't even pick up the pieces of unripe fruit out of my grass. He leaves them there to taunt me. "Eight more days and we would have been ripe. Mourn, woman, MOURN."
That stupid, weedeating asshole. He owes me blackberries.