Dear lord.

This is a day that will live in infamy, at least for stiltgrass. We musta mowed…well, the lot’s only .37 acres, and a big chunk of that is house, and we only did the back yard, so let’s call it…oh, a hundred square miles, give or take.

Well, that’s what it felt like.

In reality, we only got the bottom landing, and a path cleared, but even that was exhausting. There is still much more that needs to die, but we made a serious dent in it.

Then we cut down some trees. I used to like trees. Now I see another goddamn junk maple or sweet gum and I scream. Surprisingly large chunks of the yard suddenly make landscaping sense once you rip out all the volunteer seedlings. (The first one makes you feel guilty. The hundredth…eh, not so much.)

Then we finally set up a main compost heap, transferred the old mini-compost heap to it, did a lot of raking and pitching and heaving and grunting. I am very glad that we can turn stilt grass into dirt. Composting is one of the few ways I feel like I’m actually knocking anything off my ecological footprint.

But it’s still revolting to fork around in, damnit. There were cockroaches in the old heap the size of miniature schnauzers. I try to be eco-friendly, but I cannot love the innards of compost. (It’s a failure, I know. Mea culpa.)

Meanwhile, swallowtails–black and tiger–are frolicking in the front yard. And as I stagger through the house, the undersides of my boobs irrigated in that fashion that only the large chested can properly appreciate, compost caking my feet and bug bites dotting my arms, I still feel privileged that the swallowtails will condescend to visit my humble yard.

And now I’m going to go lay on the couch and whimper for a few hours.