it's not really my job.

I am married to the Lawn Master—with a capital M. Rob has managed to completely eradicate even the most stubborn weeds (violets look pretty, but they're real bastards), fill in the patchy spots and create a really masterful yardful of grass. Already this spring, it's lush and incredibly green.

Rob's lawn-growing talents are the subject of some admiration in the neighborhood; our next-door neighbor has consulted him for advice on seeding bare patches. And they're also the source of some grumbling and eye-rolling; our neighbor two doors down, who fancies himself quite the green-lawn guy, sniffs when he sees Rob getting a head-start on outdoor chores. "Well, I won't put down grass seed for another 2 weeks," he harrumphed at me disapprovingly when Rob was scattering finelawn fescue a week ago.

Rob is also an accomplished mower of said lawn. When he was in Bangkok last week, I made a feeble attempt at running the evil machine over the grass—leaving scalped patches and uncut strips in my wake. I'm going to leave that chore to him. He's better at it anyway.