The neighbor's grass was greener than mine. I used to fiddle with all that fertilizer stuff, but I had gotten lazy and let the dandelions take over. Now his lawn was an exquisite emerald expanse, while mine was nothing but an ugly yellow patchwork. I salivated every time I looked over the fence.

One day, as I watched his Rottweiler take a poop on my hideous lawn, I was struck by the most ingenious idea. I didn't have to just sit here, powerless, forever longing for green perfection. I could have it for myself.

That night, I took a knife and a shovel and crept over the fence. The delicious smell of grass clippings blew up into my nose; the delicate blades tickled my bare ankles.

I worked all night. When the sun rose, I showered, put on my bathrobe, and went out to drink my coffee on the front porch.

The weedy monstrosity I had once called "lawn" was no more. In its place was the most brilliant of green, placed in a perfect symmetry of freshly cut squares. The sprinkler ran, sunlight glistening off the blades of grass like tiny diamonds.

My neighbor opened his front door to take the beast for its morning walk. I smiled and waved, watching his face waver between shock and despair as he stepped his way through his dandelions and crabgrass.

I smiled and sipped my coffee. It was going to be a perfect day.