Before children (BC), I used to do ALL of the mowing and weeding here. We had an ancient push mower with a pull start that was about as easy as a scornful nun. I may or may not have a temper and consequently, may or may not have thrown that thing a time or two. Then I mysteriously started having back problems. Then I got knocked up. Then I was caring for a newborn WHILE having back problems. That is when Brock finally started doing most of the mowing and watering. That is also when we got a new push mower, new hoses and new sprinkler heads.
Last year, our friend gave us a riding "tractor" mower that was in pieces in her barn. It didn't run and her teenage son was going to repair it. Yet, instead of fixing the mower, he became frustrated and cut a bunch of the wiring. Then he proceeded to beat the crap out of it with a hammer. My friend donated the abused lawn tractor to us, and after working on it all last summer, Brock got that beast running. So what if it has no headlights, is half painted, has unidentified wires hanging by the seat and backfires every time you turn it off? It cuts our mowing time by a third and doesn't hurt my back! Yeehaw!
I call him Frankenmower.
|Doesn't it just scream femininity?|
I do feel frustrated by the condition in which Brock leaves Frankenmower, and I never feel like I can just walk out to the barn, turn it on and mow while the kids are napping. Instead, I have to figure out which gas can to use, which wire is disconnected, why the hood is off and how to reattach it and so on and so forth. Naturally, all of this fills me with peace and joy.
I informed my darling husband of this common predicament last night and he said, "It's in the barn! Just turn it on! It's ready!" I narrowed my eyes at him in distrust.
So I mounted Frankenmower and by golly, it started! Then I pushed the gas pedal down and nothing happened. Then I stepped harder.... and still nothing. Then I yelled delicately, like I always do, "BRRRAAAAAWWWWWKKKK!"
Brock came to see what I required and scratched his head when I stomped on the gas and threw my hands up in the air in the always delicate universal gesture of WTF?. Then he instructed me to stand up and he lifted the seat and fiddled with something. When I sat down and pressed the gas, it magically moved forward. I glared at him so hard that I think I burned a hole in his shirt. Then he smiled sheepishly and said, "Darned kids." Darned kids my mayonnaise white ass. The man left it, once again, in a state of disarray. And you people wonder why I drink.
I proceeded to drive Frankenmower around the yard and mow the grass while Brock weeded one of the flower gardens. This image of the woman on the tractor and the man weeding the flower beds struck me as amusing, so in my mind, I imagined what one of my favorite people on the planet, an authentic good ole boy, would have to say about our picture. In honor of said good ole boy, I started muttering to myself, "Damned woman don't know her place!" And by golly if I didn't mow our entire lawn/weed patch with that phrase running through my sick mind and a satisfied smirk plastered on my face.
As soon as I start making "My Own Money", I am buying myself my very own lawn tractor. I am painting it pink and airbrushing a purple unicorn and rainbows on it and attaching a silver horn on the front. I will call it "DreamWeaver" and she will only run for those damned women that don't know their place. Women like me. Now, please excuse me while I clean my pistol.
Peace out mother-truckers,