Stinging Nettle Green and Dead Plant Brown

Another week, a new bike seat for Man-Wonder and eight bags of stinging nettles later we are both happy campers.

Man-Wonder because of a cushy ride and me because once again, home smells of drying herbs.

Not only is my file-cabinet-turned-passive-solar-dehydrator bursting with drying, crackly leaves but the hobby room is draped in hanging clusters of prickly plants and there is a bag of blender-ized nettle ice cubes in the freezer to boost the value of my green tea lemonade.

Yes, life is good here in Seabreeze MHP!

thL0K3IDP4thL0K3IDP4thL0K3IDP4thL0K3IDP4thL0K3IDP4thL0K3IDP4thL0K3IDP4  Or it was.

Until we felt guilty about having fun while the neighbors were all but spit-polishing their abodes. And—mercy on my twitchy soul—Man-Wonder did something I never thought he’d do—he listened to me going on (and maybe on . . . ) about the virtues of vinegar and its 101 uses, like windows and floors inside; moss and grime outside.

“Like what’s growing on the roof tiles and on the skylights.” I mentioned hopefully.

“Yeah, yeah.” He agreed, but first, he was going to try the stuff out lower—like the edges of the driveway, the weeds in the gravel and the dandelions multiplying like rabbits in the lawn.

He filled his pump sprayer with vinegar, primed it to perfection until it sprayed like spittle from a preacher giving a sermon about sinners, then proceeded to spray the bejesus out of every weed, clump of moss and perky dandelion on our piece of mobile heaven.

He’s barely finished before he was yelling at me to come out and check it out. Seriously, the man was almost dancing as the weeds and dandelions wilted.

*Note* The sky was overcast during the spray. While we were inside having lunch, the sun burned the clouds away. AND much, much more. . .

Like every single spot where he sprayed, the sun + vinegar burned.

And he sprayed a lot of spots!  And every spot had about a foot of over-spray. . .

OMG! That evening, as we sat in our chairs, looking over the damage, I commented on how it “kinda looks like someone dropped a giraffe skin over the yard.”

He looked around, at the neighboring pristine lawns connecting to our sad, sad lawn and said, “Hey, If anyone asks, we’ll just say it camouflage and we’re hiding from the Mothership.”

Is it any wonder I call him Man-Wonder?


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