Do you remember in college when you had a car and your friends would ask for a ride, so you'd say, “Cash, ass, grass, or pass - nobody rides for free.” Well, at forty, that phrase doesn't mean anything even remotely close to what it did back then. These days it means that you pay thousands of dollars to an asshole who landscapes your yard, which causes you to suffer a small stroke, because you spent so much fucking money on actual grass. That’s what it means. And, that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that the yard he planted is full of weeds and the neighborhood association is going to fine us if we don’t get it under control. In other words, I have to start doing yard work… which doesn’t just irritate me… it genuinely horrifies everyone around me… and with good reason. The last time I tried to do it, I sent the following text to my best friend:
mkromd, “OMG. I broke the hot tub. The side wall thing fell off.”
TB, “HOW in the HELL did you break your hot tub?”
mkromd, “With the lawn mower. Hellooooo. How else do you break a hot tub?”
TB, “Do you need me to come fix it?”
mkromd, “No, I need you to come and cut the fucking grass. We’ll call a
handyman to fix the hot tub.”
Honestly, I hate doing it so much that it makes me cry. Granted – not as
much as it makes the neighbors cry, but still – there are tears. It’s so bad
that passersby rapidly usher their children past our home and the people on our
street won’t even make eye contact with me when I’m in the yard. And that’s
where our story begins.
You see, this month, DB went fly-fishing in Montana, so for the first time
since we moved in, the yard actually has fallen to me, and I know that’s wrong.
I do. I know that we’re partners and the work should be more evenly
distributed. I get it. But it’s one thing to process that logically. It’s a
whole different ball game to process it emotionally. Because honestly, you
might be surprised to know what I’d do for a Klondike bar, but you’d be
downright horrified to learn what I’ve done to get out of yard work.
So, there I was, resolved to take the high road and do my part, when the
automatic sprinkler system went off and nailed me. Thank GOD I wasn’t wearing
white shorts… just a white tank top. Yup. Once again, my life was like, “Girls
Gone Wild,” the mid-life crisis edition. Next time, I’m going to do it in a
Burka. Why not? After all, like my dad used to say, “Dear Lord, please give me
a sense of humor. If you give me strength, I may need bail money to go with it.”
Talk to you later.