Sitting on my sunny back porch, in the unusual New Hampshire April heat, I’m thinking about picking up a rake and getting to work...again, for another season. But writing is what I do best and it’s what I love. So back to my desk I go.

Here’s a peek into my secret and not so secret thoughts on why I need help...

My husband, Michael, excels at many things.

He is a top notch and awarded Volvo Master Mechanic, he can make the best curry and rice you ever tasted, and, when the Feeding America Backpack Program is passing out the list of suggested food donations at Walmart, my husband gets everything on that list and more.

He is the most generous human being I know. I think that is the number one reason I love him so much.

But...and come on, you knew there was a “but” coming, even though he is cracker jack at some things, house maintenance, not so much.

He’ll admit it. Well, he’ll admit it now. For the first 15 years of our marriage he used the,“I’m going to do it this weekend” excuse.

Yeah, well, in the meantime, people are asking us if our New England farmhouse is broken up into un-rented apartments because there only appears to be life on the side we park the cars on.

There are no front steps, the bushes have grown up over the windows, and the vinyl siding is green with algae.

One date night out, Michael and I ran into an old high school teacher of his.

“What a shame,” she said, scolding her head back and forth. “That house has been in your family since the ‘60's and your father always kept it so impeccable. Now,” she spats boldly, “Someone else owns it and it looks horribly unkempt. The gutters are so full of weeds, it looks like there is a garden growing on the porch roof.”

She made a face. She rolled her eyes.

Michael and I looked at each other. He said nothing.

I smiled in tart sweetness, leaned over to her, and said, “Oh, that would be us. We live there now.”

“OHHH, ” She said, eyes wide, her words back peddling, “Well, I’m sure you are busy and…,” her response trailed off as quickly as she did.

Now, I have to say, in my own defense, I have tried to hire help.

First came the handyman to fix the roof. Despite the side of his truck advertising his roofing service, strangely, he didn’t own a ladder that would reach the side porch. That was the end of him.

Then came the football player who showed up due to a big push from his dad. That ended with dad painting the porch ceiling, thus ending my to-do list with the not-so-interested son.

The next to arrive was the contractor who, after agreeing to repaint our 100 year-old tin dining room ceiling, said he’d call me back on Monday. That was last August.

Last spring, the landscaping mow and blow guys did just that, blew the hell out of my tulips, shredding and laying them flat. Needless to say, that three-season contract ended on day one.

My final try was a top notch and awarded high school athlete. He did, in fact, finish painting one length of fence after three months, two ER visits for poison ivy, and one bucket of white paint dumped on the lawn, which now remains a reminder of his otherwise good efforts.

“It’s okay.” I told him, “You can’t be cracker jack at everything.”

So...lesson learned.

Why spend my time with my mind in a gutter full of weeds, shaming and blaming those with good intentions, who fell short of my expectations.

P.S. Michael finally put up some pre-fab steps, the algae bleached out in the summer sun, and the gutter growth died and blew away in the winter wind.