The Lawn, Part 2

As all the neighbors know, I hate yard work. I mean, really hate it. I would rather have a root canal then putter around in the garden. The first sign of spring on our block is not the robin, swooping down to gobble up a fat, juicy worm for breakfast, it is a truck pulling up to our house and dropping off men with power equipment.

Unfortunately, this year spring was delayed due to the fact that I fired the lawn company from last year and couldn't find a replacement right away. Also unfortunate was the fact that the grass and bushes did not cooperate with this schedule. They began to grow. And grow. And grow.

I was quite happy to ignore "the jungle" as our yard was affectionately becoming known in the neighborhood, but Tim cracked under the pressure and was threatening to buy a mower and actually use it. Apparently, the last straw was when he had to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find his way from the house to the car. Wimp.

Even more unfortunate (for me) is that Tim has a bad back and, for the past week, the flu. (Okay, it was no party for him either, but let's focus on what is important here---me breaking a sweat and getting dirty). There was no hope for it. He was not falling for "let's worry about it tomorrow" ----again. (Hey, it worked for Scarlet, and we do live in the south.) I would have to mow the lawn.

I tried to be brave. Really, I did. I picked out a cute little red push mower and convinced myself that it would be good exercise. It might even be fun. I'd put on my ipod and be like one of those people you see in the commercials who are so happy to be working in their yard that they cannot stop themselves from breaking into song and dance.

I even had a guy flirt with me while I was checking out. He asked me if I was a former model (former? A swing and a miss). He also apparently missed the sarcasm dripping from my voice when I told him how clever he was to have noticed. I, however, did not miss the look of incredulity on his face or the amazement in his voice when he said, "Really?" (I might have been less insulted if he had been a buff twenty-something, but since it looked like many long, hard years had passed since this man could even spell buff.....strike two!)

Okay, so this was turning out to be more like one of those commercials where the people have constipation or hemorroids and are not quite as happy or inclined to dance.

I shook it off though, determined to get back to my "happy place". The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day to be outdoors, and it would take me no time at all to zip around the yard with my little mower since I didn't have to worry about filling it with gas or plugging it in or whatever else one does with those big he-man mowers. Maybe I could work up a small jig after all.

Then again, maybe not. Eagerly, I removed the mower from the car and set it on the nearest patch of grass. I pushed. It pushed back. Hmm. Maybe the grass was too high here. I moved it to a less dense spot where the grass was only up to my knees. I pushed again, really putting my back into it...and got about six inches before it refused to budge. Okay...maybe it needed some WD-40 to get it moving. After all, it was new and hadn't been broken in yet.

Half an hour and half a can later, I had mowed a grand total of about one square foot of lawn. Ten minutes and ten or more curses after that, I was eying the hedge clippers and wondering if it wouldn't be less painful to just cut the grass by hand.

Needless to say, the neighbors were enjoying all this immensly. I think they were taking bets on exactly when I was going to snap and go after the mower with the clippers, sort of like a Friday the Thirteenth sequel, only with Ray-bans instead of a hockey mask.

Finally, in total desperation, I pulled the mower instead of pushing it. And (can you hear the chorus of angels singing "Halleluia"?) it actually cut the grass! Perhaps someone might have shared that pertinent jewel of information a wee bit sooner? Say, before I had my stroke?

Two hours and many, many blisters later, I was passing the mower over the last patch of grass/demon weeds from the very bowels of the underworld that refuse to bend, break or die no matter how many times you cut/ slash/ rip out or stomp on when it happened....Spring arrived in our neighborhood, or at least an estimate of spring with the promise to return three days later.

Needless to say, the mower has been retired and we signed a contract that very day to make sure I never have to repeat the whole horrible experience ever again. I have already made the appointment for the root canal instead.