The grass is always weedier on my side

I love this time of year.

The world is so green and shiny it looks expensive.

From a distance the green expanse is like a bit of emerald perfection because — and this is the important part — if I don't look too closely I can imagine that it's all green grass. Lovely grass, lush and splendid, for as far as the eye can see.

Of course, that's a sham, a lie, a weak grasp at selfdeception.

This isn't the lush, expanse of sod-o-glamor it appears to be, for hidden among the grass, waiting to overwhelm it, is a mess of [insert curse word of choice] weeds.

I take it all personally.

While I have enjoyed a rain-fueled lushness this spring, such as I haven't seen for a few years, I know it's coming to an end. Like the coming of mosquitoes and gnats, I see my impending weed doom.

A yellow tint of wild mustard is beginning to taint the greenness. Its blossoms are yet another symbol that the universe thrives on irony.

In the last few years, as my husband and I have cleared our property — which was once a bona fide junkyard — we've noted that as we move out each obnoxious piece of junk, a patch of noxious weeds move in.

How can I not take that personally? We leave a cleaned piece of earth and our efforts are repaid with a crop of weeds. Mustard seems to be the filler weed of choice.

Maybe my reaction to the weeds wouldn't be so bad, but one of my special gifts, along with being able to tie a cherry stem into a knot using only my tongue and teeth, is that I can't make weeds die or good plants grow. The cherry- stem thing is a nice party trick. The weed thing, not so much.

If I nurture a flower, a vegetable or an herb, it dies despite my most careful efforts. If I were to plant a lawn, I would have a barren wasteland surrounding my home. On the other hand, if I spray the recommended chemical-based killer on a weed patch, it flourishes like a million-dollar crop. I can grow kosha as big as shade trees with one healthy application of a spray herbicide.

And, yes, I've been desperate enough to try nurturing the weeds to see if my black thumb will kill them with kindness, or whatever you want to call the dark mojo my aura works on the good green things.

And, no, I fail at weed killing that way too. I'm cursed.

I hate weeds. It's absolutely a personal thing.

(Now, go outside and pet your lawn, tell it that it's a good boy at http:// viewnorth40.wordpress.com.)