Todays topic: Does your lawn really deserve this?

Have you ever had a neighbor that keeps their lawn cut tighter than a marine crew cut while you are barely keeping up with the city ordinance to keep the grass eye level or lower? If yes then I'm with you. Now when you move into the suburbs from the city like I have done, you learn that lawn maintenance is at a whole new level in the burbs. It's kind of like going from high school ball directly to the pros. No such thing as playing for fun anymore. Your contract depends on it out here. My neighbor? The Tiger Woods of lawn care. Pre-scandle that is. Back when Tiger was like a surgeon on the golf course. This analogy probably comes to me since when I look at his backyard I feel like I live next to Augusta, home of the Masters. That's a pretty nice golf course for those of you not in the know. Mine is a rundown public course in comparison. Anyway, let's begin on a typical summers day. I am awaken, not by the sounds of birds swirling around Snow White's head singing joyfully. Not by the happy pouncing of a Labrador retriever. No, I am awaken by a sound that makes my soul scream out "Oh dear God not again. Please let it not be starting at 8 am on a Saturday after the late night I had." But oh yes, the delightful sound of the old guy trying to get the lawn mower started. If God loves me even just a bit it won't start. I guess not this morning as the sputters turn into a whining pinging roar. Thus begins his 7 hour full blown lawn spa treatment. Starting with the outer perimeter. A full tracing of his entire yard, tree, lawn ornament and bird bath. The middle is left for the riding mower. As about an hour passes and my migraine is taking me to a place of pain where I believe they take lab monkeys or interrogation suspects to test extra maximum strength Tylenol, I get a few seconds of relief before the riding mower starts. This is bittersweet since although it is louder than the push mower, it has less of a marble in a blender sound. Most sane people would stop after that. Not the lawn enforcer. I believe his mission is to eventually scare his lawn into growing to the perfect height and learning it's lesson and staying there. Because, as I wet and jamb cotton balls into my ears, the riding mower's work is done and it's time once again to fire up the push mower and give the entire lawn a complete re-mow. Yes a re-mow. Just for good measure I believe. This, so far, describes the first 4 hours. Cuz now it's weed whacking time. Though the last time a weed dared step foot on his grass was some 25 years ago. This little baby is used to individually take care of any blade of grass that may have survived the lawn massacre. "Viva la resistance"..."Zzzzzip"...dead... weed whacker style. To not drag this on for you readers too long, the spa day ends with him sitting along the driveway and walkways trimming the grass even with a pair of scissors and a final clean up with a leaf blower. For what very well may be 2 hours. I myself believe that my lawn, having been an eye witness to the 7 hour systematic euthanization of unruly blades of grass next door, deserves a stay of execution and is allowed to grow until the mailman goes missing trying to cross it.