Handy Gal

Let me start by saying that I am not the most handy gal in town, I am good at cleaning and organizing, but not so good at home improvement projects or maintenance.  This past weekend we received a set of bunk beds for our kids from some wonderful neighbors and all we had to do was put them together.  I will admit I can turn a screw into wood, that much I can do, but I am not saying I won’t strip said screw while getting the job done.  That’s where my husband comes in to play and takes over, he is handy, especially for a white color guy.  He can build and repair and paint and get ‘er done.  While my husband set upon this task, I took to laundering all the bedding and offered to mow the lawn so he would have one less thing to do that day.


Now my husband is pretty picky about how he takes care of the yard and how it looks, to him it is about pride and he feels the lawn shows as much about your manliness as your private parts.  I can see his face contort as he tries to decide whether having me finish the lawn and give him free time is worth it or not.  He says no twice and then says, “Ok that would be great”.  My guess is that to him it is technically fall and the yard will start dying off soon anyway so I can’t do much to ruin it.


I have to be really honest, mowing the grass should be a piece of cake, but I find it a bit challenging.  Especially because we just had a week’s worth or hurricane rain and the grass is about 8 inches tall.  The first challenge is starting the damn thing.  Why after all the technological advances made, is there not a push button on it?  Seriously, I can see Mars and remote control bake with the apps on my cell phone, but I still have to pull start a lawnmower?  It takes a few attempts but I finally get it going and now the next thought running through my head is that I hope I don’t have to stop because I am not sure I can pull it that many times again without flooding the damn thing.


I make a few swipes and as usual I start thinking I should have started the other way, so now I am making diagonal swipes and the 16 foot front yard is now half straight lines and the other half diagonal with the occasional zigzag across the middle.  I cut around the tree and mulch and eliminated a bit of work for myself because I accidentally got close enough to deadhead most of the flowers around the bush (I hope they come back next year).  I get as close to the cable box as possible and only ran over the hose once.  I feel pretty good about it and head to the backyard.


The backyard is bigger and is lined with big pine trees that overhang the property line.  My husband has requested that I get as far under those trees as possible.  Oh boy!  Again I start mowing and then get stuck under a tree and the mower stalls and I am thrashing around trying to get out, certain that I have a giant spider or squirrel on my back.  I lose my place several times and can’t remember which direction I am cutting in so I start cutting just like I vacuum making sure every spot gets hit.  I finish and grab my water off the porch as my husband comes out to inspect my handy work.  He chews his lip for a moment and then says, “It is still too long, cut it again, but make sure you go in the opposite direction”.  SHIT!!!  I can’t tell you what direction I went in at any point and now I am supposed to know which way is opposite.  I smile, start the mower back up and start pushing it whichever way seems right, which I am certain is not.


Done….I finished cutting in about 1.5 hours and was drenched in sweat.  My husband comes out to check again and asks why I am so sweaty.  I am a sweater, when I exercise (which isn’t too often) or do any kind of labor I turn bright red and sweat like nobody’s business.  Let’s see…I am sweating because I am cutting the grass in 90 degree weather at high noon!


I am patting myself on the back, I did some man’s work and I didn’t even complain.  Well, maybe a bit through my blog, but that’s why I started this damn thing.  So the bunk beds are up and made, the grass is cut and life is back to bliss.


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