An Open Note to Men: If You Are Crouching Behind the Bushes in My Front Yard, I Will Notice, and I Will be Cranky.

I’ve just come home from working at a client’s office.  I’m all prettied up in a summery suit, I’ve got my Thai take-out in hand, and I’m feeling pretty good about what I’ve accomplished with my day.  I open the door, put one 3-inch heel down on the cement, and then I notice that the bushes in my front yard are moving.  3-inch heel quickly retreats back to the car and I slam and lock the door.

In hindsight, I realize that for the brief moment my door was open, I heard my three year old son playing in the back yard with his Grandma – just behind the fence, 2 feet away from the unreasonably active bushes.  Adrenaline propels me out of the car where I stare openly at the bushes, which immediately freeze.

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle… the bushes shake, and two feet in dirty tennis shoes scuff out from behind the landscaping onto the sidewalk.  Standing there, smiling guiltily while brandishing a small garden spade, is a tiny, old Asian man, covered in dirt.

Last year, on a Sunday morning, I was about to walk out to my car when I noticed tiny, old Asian man digging holes in our front yard.  Needless to say, this raised a few questions in my mind.  Why does this man hate our front yard?  Is he stealing a patch to replace a part of his yard?  Is there a reason he chose my nicely manicured yard, as opposed to the yard with the futon, or the yard harboring the family of rabid raccoons under their “decorative” boat?  As a preemptive to attacking him with the garden hose, I asked my Dad (who lives in our Mother-In-Law apartment downstairs) if he knew anything about it.  Indeed, tiny, old Asian man had asked Dad if he could “weed” our yard.  Dad offered him a bottle of sake and a tea set to do so.   (My parents find drinking to be akin to blaspheming and kicking puppies, I cannot imagine why they had a bottle of sake and a tea set just hanging about… it’s scandalous.)  Since that first encounter, I’ve noticed that tiny, old Asian man patrols our neighborhood regularly.  Sometimes while shuffling about in his housecoat and slippers, so slow that he appears to not be walking so much as standing and waiting for the Earth to rotate underneath him.  Sometimes he’s out in his shorts, black socks and flip flops, casually munching a gargantuan piece of corn on the cob as he meanders down the street.  Today, he was behind the bushes in my front yard.

Tiny, old Asian man, brandishing his spade, drew my attention to the pile of weeds he had accumulated near the bushes.  I was at a loss for how to respond.  There stood an octogenarian who has been paid with alcohol to weed my yard.  Awkward.

I’m pregnant, I’m tired, I really just want to eat my Thai food, I decide: I’m not dealing with this, I’m going into the house.  I wave to tiny, old Asian man and say, “Thank you.”  I attempt to flee.  Tiny, old Asian man, who does not speak English, yells something across the yard.  I look up, and realize that he is shuffling towards me, beckoning to me, with his shovel.  He wants me to come with him, behind the bushes. 

This is going to seem off topic, but stay with me.  If you’ve ever had your nails done, you know that no one speaks English once they start doing your nails, which is fine – I’d rather just read my book.  I will even accept that pedicurists are entitled to say mean things about me in another language and when I look up with eyebrows raised, and they explain, “I just say you have pretty hair.” I will even pretend I believe them.  (They touch feet all day; there should be some kind of perk.)  Taking a page out of my pedicurist’s book, I gave a wildly exaggerated thumbs up, an awkward half bow, and yelled “THANK YOU!” pretending I had no idea what he wanted and jammed my key in to the front door like a serial killer was three steps off the porch.

I looked outside a little later this evening, and there’s another patch of lawn missing.  Tiny, old Asian man is probably somewhere blogging about his stingy neighbors who owe him another 3 bottles of sake.