poing!

I have said it before and I will say it again: If nothing in the world about blogging appeals to you, you have never read Dooce. Please please please check it out.

That said, I would like you to know about my afternoon of Poo Patrol here at Casa Hoefs-Benson. It has become an exercise in danger and futility. The back yard has become a field (albeit tiny) of pampas grass or, as I now like to call it, pompous grass--due to the way it just sort of sneeringly waves at me as I walk around scouting for poo. "Ha Ha! We grow stonger and longer and there is nothing you can do.ah.ah.ah."
Our lawnmower has ceased to function, likely a result of being left outside during the multitude of winter rainshowers. I've cleaned the filters, checked the fuel and oil, and changed the sparkplug to no avail. My dad recommended checking to see if there is indeed even a spark to plug, but my arms aren't long enough to pull the rope *and* hold the sparkplug up to the metal surface of the mower. Long story short, I haven't mowed since about 3 weeks after we moved in. It's amazing how long the grass has gotten really. The dogs don't like to poop in certain areas because the grass is so long. It tickles their butts, and no one wants that. When they do poo in the long grass it is impossible to see, so that when I do finally get the mower working (or we break down and buy or borrow another one), I will be treading on a veritable graveyard of crunchy-white dog doo.

Anyway. That's my dog doo tale. How was your day?