Yard boys used to be just for fun

I mowed my grass yesterday.

Mowing the grass sucks.

My neighbor has a riding lawnmower and we were both frantically trying to get our yards finished before the rain came. He had an easier time of it. Trust me. I discovered something about myself, though. I am an angry mower.

I'm sure there are people in the world who are happy mowers. Their perky self-talk probably leaves a trail of joy floating behind them as they glide back and forth, rows of perfectly manicured lawn appearing as if by magic from beneath their sparkly grass cutting machines. I am not one of these people.

My self-talk starts with a creative stream of obscenities. In my defense, it's out of necessity. I own a perverse lawnmower that only responds to verbal abuse. In fact, the probability of my lawnmower starting is in direct proportion to the degree of foulness my language descends to while trying to crank it. Anyone who lives within a twelve mile radius knows my lawnmower is a fatherless fornicator that enjoys copulating with farm animals.

I'd like to be able to say it goes uphill from there, but it doesn't. After dislocating my shoulder getting the stupid thing to start, I have to push this archaic piece of machinery through a jungle obstacle course covered in crawfish towers. It was easier pushing a ten pound baby through my $#&&$. I start thinking things like, "I have GOT to start making some money so I can pay somebody to do this $#^#," and "Maybe if I offer the guy next door fifty bucks he'll do my yard. Who needs gas? The kids can walk to school."

By now, the guy next door is finished and big fat drops of rain are hitting me in the head. I'm sure he's watching me through his window, kicked back, sipping a Mojito, laughing at the pathetic white woman who's too lame to get a man to mow her grass.

Then I start imagining all the famous people who don't have to do yard work. Oprah, Ellen... I'm not sure why my thoughts run toward talk show hosts, but they do. They may miss a lot of things from their lives before fame and fortune, but I am absolutely positive there are no sentimental pinings for those long hot days spent mowing the grass.

Finally, after a few hours, my yard is almost done, I'm a hair's breadth away from a stroke, and I pay my boyfriend's son ten bucks to finish. The boyfriend tries to help by saying, "At least you got a good workout." :-/

And it will all have to be done again in a week.

Note: Unless you're a bulimic looking for a new way to purge, it's really not a good idea to stuff yourself with Flaming Hot Cheetos, mixed nuts and a Diet Coke before heading outside to work in the yard.