May 23, 2011
Our lawn is a bitch to mow.
Which I sort of knew, as our house is on a hill and the backyard is nothing but hills and dips.
But knowing and experiencing are two different things.
Very different.
And I should have known what the afternoon would be like from the less than auspicious beginning.
We have a heavy lawn mower.
Two people, minimum, are required to bring it out of the basement to the back deck.
It also has an adjustable handle. . .
Stephen loosened the handle so I could grasp the front of the lawn mower while he walked backwards up the step with the back end of the lawn mower.
Where the engine is.
So it's heavier.
Such a gentleman, my husband.
Consequently, the adjustable handle, which was supposed to be upright as Stephen tightened it enough. . .
. . .was not tight enough and came down over my shoulders, pinning my arms to my side, and ensuring my hands had no where to go other than where they were, holding the lawn mower.
Pinned by the lawn mower.
A metaphor for the entire afternoon.
Stephen found my predicament hilarious.
I was less than amused.
But, at the same time, aware that 70 pounds ago, the handle would have probably knocked me on the head rendering me unconscious.
Yeah weight loss???
We managed until we got to the top of the stairs, because we were on an angle.
When we were both level. . .
. . .keep your snarky comments to yourselves, please. . .
. . .and Stephen wanted to put the lawn mower down, that became a bit of a challenge.
Because if I let go, the handle would have slipped even further down.
Somehow, we managed to keep the mower at an angle long enough for me to extricate myself from this most unfortunate position.
Nothing is ever easy around here.
Nothing.
Next we had to tackle the weed wacker.
It needed new wire on the spool.
Hmmmm. . . .
I think this calls for a visit across the street to our most friendly neighbour who has a yard care business and knows how to do these things.
He wasn't surprised to see me.
Neither Stephen and I are what you would call machine savvy people.
We can't even put up a clothesline.
He was very patient and showed me how to get the wire onto the spool.
Assuming, most erroneously, that I would remember and be able to do it myself the next time.
Back home.
Spool in weed wacker.
That I do know how to do.
All that was left was to start the thing and let the wacking commence!
Assuming, most erroneously, that I would remember the very precise order of operations necessary to begin said machine.
Back across the street.
More patient demonstrations.
And a roaring weed wacker ready to throw of the winter sloth and begin its hard work.
Weed wacking isn't the hardest thing to do in our yard.
But there is a lot of it.
We have lots of trees and gardens that are not amenable to lawn mowing.
Hence I wack their perimeter, making everything look nice and neat.
Those hills are a pain to mow, and in all honesty, you can't, so I wack those.
The plan was I wack and Stephen mows.
You know what they say about the best laid plans. . . .
Stephen is taking a blood pressure medication that makes his legs swell, his feet hurt, creates fatigue and generally changes his usually industrious and friendly disposition.
He eventually started mowing.
But he'd mow a bit and stop.
Do something else.
Mow some more and stop.
Do something else, perhaps inside the house where I couldn't see him.
Mow some more and stop.
Not the roaring mower pushed to the limits of it's endurance I'd become used to.
He mowed the front yard and called it quits.
I don't think so.
One, the lawn must be cut otherwise we're going to have to hire someone from the city with their handy dandy ride on mowers to come and rescue us from the rapidly encroaching lawn.
Two, the sun is out and who knows when THAT will happen again.
Three, and most important, I wanted it done.
He wasn't budging.
So, I did what any other loving, caring, sympathetic wife would do.
Got angry.
And did it myself.
When I want something done, I want it done and I don't want any whining, bitching, moaning, kvetching, about it.
Just do it.
And I did.
I'd never cut this lawn or used this mower before, and in doing so acquired a greater understanding of where the weed wacker could be used.
So it was a learning experience.
And, truth be told, I actually didn't mind mowing the lawn.
I can see me doing it again.
Imagine.
As the sun was out, I also insisted on washing all the laundry, bedding, and hanging it all on the clothesline.
Undies and all.
Meaning between wacking and mowing, I was in and out of the house with baskets of laundry.
By the time all was finished, I had a shower, had dinner with all the kids. . .
. . .a rare event and one I normally cook for but was too tired to do so, therefore I made Stephen purchase pizza I couldn't eat, meaning I ate cottage cheese and boneless, skinless chicken breast while they satiated themselves on luscious, cheesy, olive and mushroom pizza. .
. . . made fruit salad and put sunshine dried sweet smelling sheets and blankets on the bed. . .
. . .and was then off to the nursing home.
There was still the underwear to deal with.
Same size as the original purchase.
Not what she wanted.
Back to Sears I go.
And I said to my mother that if she didn't like what I brought back next time, she was coming with me.
Cause I'm tired of returning underwear.
Today I am sore, but it's the kind of sore you get from accomplishing something.
So it's a good sore.
And the day is light.
We're off the the new Pirates of the Carribean movie as soon as Em can remove herself from the shower and beautify herself.
Mer's coming with us, so we'll stop and collect her.
Keith's already at work.
Even Stephen is coming.
A nice way to spend a very cold, very windy Victoria Day.
And the yard. . . .it just looks so good!
Title Lyric: Dear Mr. President by Pink
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