Mamacita says:  I own a pair of gardening gloves.  Really, I do.  I bought them after the ripping-poison-ivy-out-with-cloth-gloves-and-getting-resin-all-over-my-hands incident of a few weeks ago.  They’re very pretty, and still in the package.

The thing is, I don’t schedule my ventures into the savannah that is my yard.  I start ripping into the weeds at random moments, and I never have those gloves with me when the mood strikes.

I’ll be walking from the car to the door and I’ll be seized with a desire to RIP those confounded * weeds OUT of the GROUND by the ROOTS before I so much as take another BREATH.

And I start tearing at them with my bare hands.  And I don’t stop until they’re gone.  Until they’re DEAD.  DEAD, uprooted.  Piled in the driveway with one end a foot higher than the other because I ripped them out by the ROOTS.

Ahem.  I’m fine now.

Well, except for the fact that, as always, my hands are covered with blisters and splinters and cuts, one of which might need a stitch, and the itch, it is beginning.  We’ll see.  In the meantime, ouch, and bring on the bandaids.

But the weeds?  They are no more.

* Coot-talk for “damn.”  Really, it should be “damned,” but who’s scoring grammar for cussing?  Besides me, I mean.