The One Where I Unwittingly Water the Weeds

So you know those weeds that grow in the cracks of your concrete? I hate them, and they are overtaking our sidewalks and making me mutter unladylike things under my breath. I found a bottle of weed killer leftover from last year's battle against the Six Foot Growth of Poison Ivy (of Doom) and went to work on them several days ago. After a couple days nothing had happened, but I wasn't alarmed. The bottle had said it may take two cycles to kill the weeds, so I doused them again. This time Stephen sat playing with the kids on the other side of the yard and watched me. He started to interrupt me with a question, then said, "Oh, never mind." I shrugged it off and continued my personal assault on the weeds.

Two days ago we were outside again, and I threw up my hands in the air, despairing because, you guessed it, the weeds were bigger and badder than ever before. And this is how our conversation went:

Me: "I can't believe it! I've been spraying those weeds with the weed killer, and they won't go away!"

Stephen: "Oh. Yeah. About that. I was going to tell you that I had just about used that up when I killed the poison ivy, so I filled the rest up with water."

Me: (blank stare)

Stephen: (goofy grin)

Me: "You mean to tell me that I have been watering the weeds? Instead of killing them with deadly toxins I have been watering them???!!!"

Stephen: "Yeah, I guess."

Me: "Why didn't you say anything? You stood there and watched me! I did it twice!"

Stephen: "I don't know."

Seriously, folks. That was his response. "I don't know."

When I related this story to my mom, her take was, "Men. Who needs 'em?"

And as much as I love and depend on and respect and cherish my husband, instances like this make me want to agree with her.

(And today I made a homemade mixture of bleach and boiling water and really took out my frustrations on those weeds. I'll let you know who wins.)