Too-Mulch-chu-us

I was held hostage this weekend, “forced” to shovel and wheel-barrel ten yards of mulch. Do you know how much ten yards of mulch is? I thought it looked rather like Mount McKinley—it’s giant and you can’t see over it and it makes you want to start drinking. It’s too mulch. The wife enlisted my help this year and since I’ve gotten away with basically for more than ten years never helping with the mulch-spreading, it seemed only fair that I fulfilled this relationship obligation. It would be too-mulch-chu-ous to say no at this point. (Actually, in all fairness to the wife, I really wasn’t forced—I volunteered in a weak moment. But, it’s so much more fun to say that I was forced so blog readers can have a laugh.) Thankfully, our friend T offered to help with this endeavor. I’m not sure if she’s our best-est friend or our stupidest friend for volunteering. It was wonderful having that third person help dig out Mt. McKinley but why anyone would volunteer to do this, I have no idea.

T and I start shoveling mounds of mulch into wheel barrels while the wife is seen primping her hair in the car window reflection. T and I roll wheel barrel after wheel barrel of mulch up and down the yard while the wife wanders around pointing at this and that. T and I begin to realize that we got the short end of the stick, so we go on strike and take a break. We pretend to be Union members and take a longer break than planned, complete with chocolate. We demand better working conditions and a higher wage. The wife agrees to buy us dinner for our efforts. Victory!

Four hours later, T and I are still spreading mulch. We are too old for this and realize we will not be able to get out of bed the next day. I whined. A lot. I almost poked an eyeball out when walking into a tree branch during mulch delivery. I whined some more. My butt hurt, my arms hurt, my legs hurt, my eye hurt. I had mulch in my nose, in my shoes, in my hair. The wife is spreading the piles of mulch over her prize gardens and she’s starting to look tired from all that bending and raking. T and I thank the gods that the wife is starting to look pooped, because the two of us can barely use our arms any more. I smashed the wheel barrel into my calf--it's going to bruise like a grape. (It sucks to get old. We could have done this in two hours when we were in our twenties. Right now we’re just trying not to have heart attacks.) By the time we get done, we are not sure we will be able to lift our forks to our mouths during our free dinner.

The mulch was spread and the heavens parted and the angels sang and we ate copious amounts of food as purchased by the wife. The flower beds, all ten yards of them, look beautiful, I must admit and I’m sure the flowers will bloom in full glory from their new mulchiness. I look forward to helping our friend T spread her mulch when it’s time.

Not.