Monty Python’s Flying Circus Presents…
Neighbor: And now for something completely different: a man with three buttocks…
Mum, Dad: [from upstairs] We've done that!
Neighbor: Oh, all right. All right! A man with nine legs.
Off-Camera Voice: He ran away.
Neighbor: Oh… bloody hell! Er… a woman with a lawn mower…
The lawn mowing chore has to be the most annoying house maintenance job man has ever invented. Yes, even over cleaning gutters or kitchen floors. The latter being the worst task for me. I still think all kitchens should have stainless steel floors with drains in the middle of them, and a mandatory kitchen appliance would be an under the counter pressure washer. But I digress.
I have on rare occasion mowed a lawn. Growing up with a bunch of older brothers there was no reason for me to mow the lawn. Even if first string sibling was on the injured list, the second or third string lawn boy was waiting on the side line ready to prove that they had the right stuff. It was more like if you didn’t mow the lawn the way mother wanted it mowed, she would show you she had the right stuff which was either at the end of a ping pong paddle or her left shoe. And if you are wondering, no I didn’t grow up in the generation of “aren’t children precious, and please don’t stifle their individuality, children are people too” era of child rearing. The parents in my generation were under the firm believe that children were meant to be seen and not hear, and if mom didn’t see her kids all Saturday and Sunday because they were playing in the woods with some ax murdering psychopath, well that would have been just fine at least we were learning a skill.
“Oh boy, can we stay on topic?” moaned Brain.
So, I now have to mow the lawn. What’s the big deal? Well, dear readers sit back and relax as you observe from your front porch.
Issue Number 1: My front lawn is on a hill.
Issue Number 2: The middle of my front lawn is one of those lovely natural areas where the squirrels are happy to run and frolic about joyfully amongst trees and lots of shrubbery.
And now for something completely different…
Pet Shop Owner: Oh yes, the, ah, the Norwegian Blue... What's, ah... W-what's wrong with it? Mr. Praline: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. It's dead, that's what's wrong with it. Owner: No, no, 'e's ah... he's resting. Mr. Praline: Look, matey, I know a dead squirrel when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now. Owner: No no, h-he's not dead, he's, he's restin'! Mr. Praline: Restin'? Owner: Y-yeah, restin.' Remarkable squirrel, the Norwegian Blue, isn't it, eh? Beautiful fur! Mr. Praline: The fur don't enter into it. It's stone dead! Owner: Nononono, no, no! 'E's resting! Mr. Praline: All right then, if he's resting, I'll wake him up!
(shouting at the cage)
'Ello, Rocky! Mister Rocky Squirrel! I've got a lovely fresh pail of nuts for you if you wake up, Mr. Rocky Squirrel...
(owner hits the cage)
Owner: There, he moved! Mr. Praline: No, he didn't, that was you pushing the cage! Owner: I never!! Mr. Praline: Yes, you did! Owner: I never, never....
(He pulls the squirrel out of the cage and...)
Brain screams…”Put down the squirrel and no one gets hurt. Let the girl finish her insipid lawn mowing story.”
Issue Number 3. I have violets, clover, moss, vole holes, and 517 blades of rye grass which are clumped together in a pattern that resemble the country of Denmark.
Issue Number 4: I am the proud recipient of the water main pipe thingy (yes, 4 years of college and that is the only term I have for it) which sits 6 to 7 inches (that’s the imperial standard 6 inches not the men’s locker room six inches) out of the ground about a foot from the curb dead center in my yard. It is a lovely feature; I think I might place two rocks next to it and see how long it takes for someone to knock on my door.
Issue Number 5: My lawn mower is electric. Now before all you organic granola, tree hugging democrats get all orgasmic on me, please re-read the above 4 issues. Waiting…waiting… image coming…Yes, I know your rose colored glasses just shattered with a cold hearted slap from reality. Here’s a tissue, dab your eyes, and wipe the snot from your nose.
And finally…
Issue Number 6: The only electrical outlet is located on the back wall of my carport.
Each individual piece is rather delightful item to itself, but once combined; mowing my yard is like going to Disneyland with a broken leg and being tethered to a pole. It just not the pleasant experience I have seen on “Leave to Beaver” when Wally tried mowing lawn for the first time. So, what sadistic lawn mowing bastard decided an electric lawn trimming device was the best option for our lawn care services? Oh yes, it was Xhusband. Ug…
So the wild green plant life needs trimming. What is one to do? Well, I must drag the mower from the shed in the back yard through the dog poop and collapsing swing set, down the rock invested side yard littered with old kid yard toys (pretty much if I cannot see it, you shouldn’t be able to either) into the front yard. String three exterior extension cords together. Now this would appear to be a simple task. However, one has to twist the male and female plugs in a specific pattern to make sure they don’t pull apart. If you look in your sexual reference manual, page 53, the Pretzel position is how the cords end up looking. Refer the following verbal description:
Curling her right leg around your right side and straddling her left leg. Use your left hand...
“Stop,” yells Brain, “vomit impulse is coming in from the stomach…”
Where to start? Hum… left side near drive way. OK, seems as good as any. It is a thin strip of land; it would be a small accomplishment, and one that will build self-esteem with the new mowing skills I am about to acquire. Mowing down the property line, maybe. Make note to self to know precisely where the property line is. Nearing flower bed. Must make turn. But to where? Go straight back up from whiniest I came or just make a right hand turn? In my state of quandary, I just start mowing the lawn like one would vacuum a carpet. At this point a nagging feeling crept from my brain. “You look like an idiot; this isn’t a carpet. Remember what the Hubs told you?” I thought for a moment. It seems to me that some where during my 20 year marriage Xhusband made mention of mowing the lawn in a particular pattern. Yes, I am sure he mentioned it several times. Why didn’t I retain that information? Quite simple really, I saw no need for both of us to be experts in the same areas. So, I was happy to smile politely as he jabbered on about which mowing pattern was healthier for the grass. You might think it rude, but Xhusband did the same for me when I babbled on about the differences between using cleanser vs. soap scum removal liquids for the tub. So I searched my brain for any information at all on lawn patterns.
“What do you think I am a Google search engine?” Brain said to me rather rudely.
“Pretty much,” I replied back to myself.
In a mumbling voice, “Google search my ass…”
“What?”
“There are two entries. One stating that mowing needs to be done in some sort of grid pattern. The other entry states something about blade height. Here is the audio,” Brain stated
“Wow, you can do audio?” I replied as my X-husband’s voice started to replay in my head.
“During the summer months, the blade is to be approximately blah, blah, blah. Notice neighbor X has applied this rule and blah, blah, blah, blah. However, Neighbor Y did not abide by this rule and their lawn has died and has brown spots. Now here is the interesting thing about brown spots, [blank for 2 minutes]. “
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air? Nixon playing with scissors again?”
“Nope from the looks of the data feed, you slipped into a short coma. Now if you had simply chosen to ignore him, which is where the blahs appear, I can run a dialog simulation routine against it. I would use the topic and various blah, blah. Hey, you cannot ignore a conversion from your own brain. This is [blank]” Brain said furiously to no one.
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air?” I repeated
“I need to talk with my union representative, I need to reassigned. I hear Sarah Palin needs a brain…”
Little did I know that the lawn maintenance knowledge has been handed down from father to since 1919. From the dawn of time, men hung out in backyard sheds and made whiskey. It was not that men really liked making whiskey; they just needed a reason to get away from their wives. So once Prohibition was in place, the men all got together and decided that they needed another outdoor activity to keep them out of the house and away from chores and children. Thus, lawns were invented.
At this point, I head towards the green menagerie of vegetation near the curb I like to call a lawn. After surveying my options, I decide to run the lawn mower parallel to the curb. Seemed like a good plan until the mower stopped working. Crap. The plug must have come undone. I run up the hill to the carport and check the plug…looks good. I run down the hill and checked each attachment of the extension cord…everything’s fine. I get back to the mower and stare at it. “It’s a lawn mower; it cannot speak,” mocks brain.
“Good, that means the paranoid/ delusional meds I’m taking are working.”
“Not really, but check the plug that goes into the lawn mower.”
“Oh, look at that.”
The above action was repeated about 3 or 4 times. Each time a different plug in spot had come undone. Add in various cord trappings by bushes, trees, a water pipe, and a dog, and you have woman running around frantically in her yard wrestling with an extension cord. It has been about 30 minutes, and I am still not finished. Did I mention the size of my lawn? It is about 110 feet wide by 6 feet deep. So it should take anyone with a gas mower, what, 5 minutes? In the middle of my antics, my 80 year old neighbor who has a lawn which resembles a carpet came over to say hello. And it went something like this.
“Hello dear. It is lovely to see you as always.” He is such flirt.
“Hi, Howard.”
“I see you are mowing your lawn. Such a fine woman shouldn’t be mowing her own yard. Maybe we can find you a nice man to help you.” And with that, he literally looked up and down the street. Just then Eric Idle jumped out of the bushes wearing a garter belt, bra and panties and mows my lawn with a toy lawn mower that blows bubbles.
