I hate grass

    As I mentioned previously, my wonderful husband and I have been newlyweds for almost three years now. We lived in sin for about a year before we got married under the same roof of our first home in Alabama. (horrified gasp) Anyway, ever since then I have been in another relationship which is dysfunctional and should actually be referred to as a relation-shit. That would be the one between myself and lawnmowers. Due to my husbands constant deployments, I unfortunately am one of those wives who has to mow lawns on occasion, an activity that I avoid like the plague. The first mower we had was an old P.O.S. that was abandoned at the last base were he was stationed. THAT should be the first clue, maybe this is not the highest quality machine. It wasn’t even self propelled, seriously people.

    I told you that story to tell you this story. Now that we are all on the same page and realize how I loathe anything lawn related, I will continue. We ditched the outdoor paperweight and acquired another lawnmower from our neighbor when we moved to Miami. Is anyone noticing a theme here? Maybe free lawnmowers are not the way to go. This one, however, is self propelled. I’m moving up in the world one shitty lawnmower at a time. So my man seems to mow the lawn effectively for a few months before he is deployed. Then he leaves to rescue all the people floating in makeshift rafts out in the Caribbean. My first attempt to mow the lawn begins.

    I put on jeans and cowboy boots, because I don’t want my cute pink running sneakers ruined. A very large brimmed hat that is actually in my profile picture and a coral sunscreen shirt. I have to protect my albino skin. So I decide to try starting the thing in the back yard because I know it’s going to be a shit show. I prime it a few times and start pulling that god forsaken string. The fucker breaks in half and the leftover string sucks right into the motor. Perfect. I instantaneously burst into tears from sheer frustration. Not the I’m so sad tears, the I could kill someone because I’m so mad tears. I walked back into the house and immediately opened a beer. This is an emergency people, focus. So I called my landlord who, thankfully, is an awesome guy. I borrowed his mower. I get home and lift the big bastard out of the truck myself. By myself, just incase you missed it the first time. I’m 5 nothing and not the strongest person in the world. So I get his mower started and mow the grass. His mower is also not self propelled. Again, Perfect. By the time I am done my hands are killing me and I can BARELY get the mower back in the truck. My neighbors watch as I struggle to LIFT the LAWNMOWER BY MYSELF into a truck. I almost dropped the damn thing. I wanted so badly to shout at them, “Don’t worry, I got it, no it’s ok don’t come help me.” My landlord also asked me if it was difficult to mow because he had a hell of a time last time he mowed it. Fantastic.

    The next day I was driving to Tampa for a baby shower so I brought the mower with me. This requires me, yet again, to lift a lawnmower into my truck, alone. My dad fixes the string while I’m in town and I bring it back home. So, round two comes a couple weeks later. I put on pink paisley rain boots this time and headed to the back yard to duke it out again. I start pulling, and pulling, and pulling, and...this goes on for a good 20 minutes. (Yes, I primed as well) Nothing. Yes, there is plenty of gas and oil in my friend. So, I let it sit and come back. I manage to get it started this time. Victory! Whoops, too soon. I get about 8 feet and it sputters out. I start it again. 5 feet, sputters out. Again, 3 feet, sputters out. At this point I believe I lost all sanity. I started screaming obscenities at the top of my lungs. This colorful part of me I get from my father, I’ve witnessed it enough to know this. I kicked the lawnmower several times in the process.

    Thankfully, the only man in this city that I know was back in town. So, I call and ask if he could possibly take a gander at my disabled cohort. He obliges. Spends a few minutes in the back yard and gets her going again. Thank God. It rains for 2 days. Then I finally get the chance to mow. I go out there in my pink paisley boots again and she starts right up. Victory! Again, too soon. That bitch got 15 feet and sputtered out. I start her up again. 8 feet, sputter out. You get the idea. Insert more obscenities and kicking of the lawnmower. So my friends, here comes the cherry on the top of this shit sundae. My husband gets to Cuba and calls me. He is drunk, fantastic. In the conversation he reveals that he was AWARE that the mower needed some tweaking. I think at this point I had visions of strangling him on the pier when he returns. He tells me the air filter needs to be changed. I say, “Yes, dear. I’m aware. Our lovely friend who came to my aid alerted me to that fact.” Then he says, “And the carburetor needs to be flushed.” This, I come to learn, our mutual friend was also aware of. I then informed my inebriated husband that I was on strike and would never, ever, ever be mowing a lawn again. He tried to convince me that he would fix it and leave it in tip top shape. At this point he could buy me a John Deer riding lawnmower with a 6 disc CD changer and a GPS. I STILL wouldn’t mow the fucking lawn.