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Aug. 11th, 2007 09:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
which_chickNice horse outing yesterday, several cars encountered but only little blow-ups. Horse did a fine job. Today I didn't do a whole lot -- went to the funeral of a friend's mother (they fed us, which I wasn't aware was a feature of funerals), took a nap, and attempted to mow the lawn.
I mowed the fenced yard. I started to mow the unfenced yard. I got about a third of it done when something happened to dampen my enthusiasm for mowing. Now, note that the last time I mowed the lawn was in June and that the grass and other herbaceous matter that make up the swale that I call a yard is about belly-deep on a tall pony. The length of the grass necessitates sort of a scrubbing motion with the lawnmower because one pass won't do it. To people who have grass that can be cut in one pass, I say unto thee: I mow once a week, like clockwork... just not MY lawn. Also, my yard is what happens when someone who hates mowing doesn't have an ordinance to keep his or her ass in line.
Anyway. Very excessively tall grass, mower requires a scrubbing motion to mow everything, else it leaves like a mohawk of longer hair in the middle of the mower path. So I'm there, scrubbing the mower over the terrain when apparently I ran over a yellowjacket nest... not once, but several times. The yellowjackets were not amused. They emerged from their hole in the ground and proceeded to inform me, in no uncertain terms, that I had violated the sanctity of their domicile. They asked me, emphatically, to leave. I did. Several followed me off their property to make sure I actually left. Now, I am not dead or dying. My people are not hugely allergic to yellowjackets and other flying stinging things of similar nature. I have unpleasant quarter-sized welts on my body. They'll be gone in three hours or so.
I'm just pissed. I made the lawnmowing effort and the damn yellowjackets came for me. Curses! Also, ow! One on my head, hairline right above the forehead. Two on right arm, one on left arm. One on left shin (front), one on back of left thigh (fairly high up -- got inside my sweatpants), one on inner right thigh, one on left ribcage (inside my shirt).
I mowed the fenced yard. I started to mow the unfenced yard. I got about a third of it done when something happened to dampen my enthusiasm for mowing. Now, note that the last time I mowed the lawn was in June and that the grass and other herbaceous matter that make up the swale that I call a yard is about belly-deep on a tall pony. The length of the grass necessitates sort of a scrubbing motion with the lawnmower because one pass won't do it. To people who have grass that can be cut in one pass, I say unto thee: I mow once a week, like clockwork... just not MY lawn. Also, my yard is what happens when someone who hates mowing doesn't have an ordinance to keep his or her ass in line.
Anyway. Very excessively tall grass, mower requires a scrubbing motion to mow everything, else it leaves like a mohawk of longer hair in the middle of the mower path. So I'm there, scrubbing the mower over the terrain when apparently I ran over a yellowjacket nest... not once, but several times. The yellowjackets were not amused. They emerged from their hole in the ground and proceeded to inform me, in no uncertain terms, that I had violated the sanctity of their domicile. They asked me, emphatically, to leave. I did. Several followed me off their property to make sure I actually left. Now, I am not dead or dying. My people are not hugely allergic to yellowjackets and other flying stinging things of similar nature. I have unpleasant quarter-sized welts on my body. They'll be gone in three hours or so.
I'm just pissed. I made the lawnmowing effort and the damn yellowjackets came for me. Curses! Also, ow! One on my head, hairline right above the forehead. Two on right arm, one on left arm. One on left shin (front), one on back of left thigh (fairly high up -- got inside my sweatpants), one on inner right thigh, one on left ribcage (inside my shirt).
