The Call Of Shame

I should not be blogging right now. There are easily 8-trillion other things that I should be doing besides blogging, and yet... I'm blogging. It's one of those gotta-do-it-while-it's-still-fresh things, or at least that's what I'm telling myself, as I sit here knowing that I have a ridiculously early morning tomorrow, and (again) 8-trillion things that need to be accomplished before my oh-so-weary head meets my BFF/pillow.

I love the spring-- not as much as I love the fall, or winter, but I love it, never the less. It's the flowers, I think, and the excitement of being able to finally wear all of those end-of-season summer clearance items I bought months ago and nearly forgot about. Don't mock me-- that's serious business. Well, when you're me, it's serious business, anyway. I also admittedly have a weak spot for the Easter holiday, because it gives me the excuse to go out and buy an extraordinary, full-price dress, all in the name of Jesus, and let's face it-- nobody gets to argue with Jesus, especially me. Egg-dyeing, those scrumptious Reese's eggs, jelly beans, watching people get baptized at church-- all great stuff. Yes, I do indeed love the spring.

... Except for one thing. Mowing. Sweet mother, I hate to mow. I look back wistfully now on how I loved it once, back when my yard was something to behold, and I took great and careful pride in manicuring it twice-a-week. Now, I live in a weed-infested rental, and while I do so adore my house and its location, the grass (ahem... weeds) just about bring a tear to my eye. When you're me, and nothing you do can make your yard look like something on the cover of Better Homes & Gardens, you begin to, well, lose interest. Yes, I admit it. The weeds have beaten me down.

So, you can understand why I have basically ignored the fact that my yard has been turning into it's own miniature replica of the Amazon rain forest over the last few weeks, because why would I want to take more time out of my day (which I don't have) to do something that really accomplishes little more than allowing me to actually see where my dogs and children are when they are playing out in the yard? Uh, boring. No, I'd rather be taking pretty pictures, or eating those Reese's eggs, drinking ridiculous amounts of coffee, or surfing for Easter dresses I can't afford-- all a far better use of my time, in my opinion.

There comes a time, though, when the weeds grow tall enough that you begin to become paranoid about whether there is a small legion of garden gnomes using them as cover in their operation to penetrate your house and punish your dogs for leaving land mines all around their native country. So, for absolute fear of being ambushed by a jihad of lawn ornaments, I dragged the mower out this past weekend, secretly praying that it wouldn't start, in a vain attempt to thin out the jungle.

Okay, the moment of truth. Give it a few good pulls, and if it doesn't start, well, oh darn. You gave it your best, and you can go back in the house, pour yourself a cup of coffee, and resume drafting your marriage proposal to Jack White (since Josh Groban has been too busy to respond). One... two... three... PULL!..... Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle-- it started-- first pull. God bless those Honda motors. I shall write them a heart-felt thank-you note just as soon as the blisters on my hands heal up from shoving this contraption through a yard of 12-inch-tall weeds.

It. Was. Awful. Let me rewind slightly and inform you that the self-propel feature on this mower has not worked in two seasons. So, as if this mower wasn't heavy enough all by itself, sitting stationary, the Honda logo looking up at me with a very smug grin on its face, pushing it back and forth across a very lumpy and soggy backyard was no picnic. Oh wait! I also forgot to mention that it had rained for three days straight, prior to when my gnomophobia set it (an actual disease-- look it up, I dare you).

Brilliant! Swamp conditions and no self-propel to help boost me along. This shall require a different pair of shoes, I thought, and I literally put on my hot pink and black rain boots... to mow the grass. True story, and in my expert opinion, appropriate attire for the conditions at hand. Play the hand you are dealt, I always say. Had I really been thinking on my toes, (which I clearly wasn't, or I wouldn't have waited so long to mow the yard in the first place), I would've made a trip out to Bass Pro (just threw up a little in my mouth as I typed that) and purchased some snake-proof boots-- you know, to stay dry and protect me from gnome artillery (which I was fully anticipating), but truth be told, I really didn't have time, and decided to take my chances.

It goes without saying (although, I'm going to say it, anyway) that the mower got clogged up with soggy, stinky grass faster than I could say, "Peanut! Quit pooping in front of the mower." It took everything I had, throwing the full weight of myself against the mower handle, to propel that beast across the lawn. I don't know how many times I had to clean it out, but I do know that it took me entirely too long to cut a mere one-third of the backyard. After stopping the mower to pick up some mutilated tennis balls, I squished back over to it, and gave the cord a good, hard yank, only to have Honda look up at me once again, only this time, he looked sort of sheepish and confused-- as was I. How on Earth did this thing start up, first pull, after sitting dormant under the porch for months, but it won't start now? This is what I get. This is what I get for hoping it wouldn't start in the first place-- a partially scalped yard-- nothing to really show for my efforts. I. Want. To. Cry. So yeah, I stood out there in the yard, and stomped out a little mini-tantrum in my rain boots. Don't judge me.

Disappointed in Honda, I sent him back under the porch to think about what he'd done, and went back inside to wash out the bits of grass and leaves that had become imbedded in my mohawk, and scrub off the grass and mud (I'm choosing to believe it was mud, because we all know that nobody likes a girl with dog crap on her legs and arms). My shower became a disgusting soup of all the things I had been avoiding for weeks, and now, I would have to attempt to tackle again at a later date. Yes, even the shower head could not wash away my disappointment.

Which brings us today! Wow, that was quite a little lead-in, wasn't it? Whatever, don't complain-- you're the one who read it, soooo.... Anyway, while sitting in the computer lab at school today, I made a firm promise to myself that I would do whatever it took to finish cutting the yard after school. This cloud had been hanging over me for weeks, and it was time to send it on its way before my weekend of complete debauchery started. Of course, things rarely go as planned at this house, what with three kids who will find any way possible to throw my carefully sketched-out itinerary into a tailspin. Sure, I could've used the kids' antics as the ideal excuse to ignore the jungle once more, but from the research I've conducted, garden gnomes like to make their attacks at night, and what kind of mom would I be if I risked the very safety of my own children, all for the sake of an afternoon power nap... with a fan blowing in my face... as I'm happily drooling on my BFF/pillow?

After having a few days to evaluate why Honda betrayed me in the first place on Sunday, I finally concluded that I had flooded his insides with gasoline by tilting him over so many times. Should be fine by now-- ready to go. Bet it starts right up, so let's get this done. Wow, this is the worst pep-talk ever. Just mow the darn grass already. One... two... three... PULL!... Hmmmmm.... Okay, okay, do it again. No biggie. One... two... three... PULL!... (cricket noises)... Hmmmmm... Okay, check all the levers and settings. Good? Yep, good. Okay, one more time. One... two... three... PULL!... WHAT. THE. FLAGNOG?.... This is crap. Honda, you are dead to me! Do you hear me? DEAD! Go to your room!

In case you were wondering, yes, I threw another mini tantrum, only this time I was in flip-flops, because the yard was not nearly so wet. Oh, and don't be one of those people who lectures me about wearing flip-flops when I mow, because let me just say (in my big, firm, I'm-not-gonna-listen-to-you voice), that I refuse to go drop $20 on a cheap pair of sneakers when I could put that money towards a stunning pair of kicks that I would actually wear in public. There. I said it. Now, back to the story.

So, there I was, frustrated and pacing (in my flip-flops) pondering how it was, exactly, that I was going to rectify this little problem, get the yard cut, and save my family from an inevitable gnome invasion. It has to be something simple. It has to be. It started fine on Sunday, and nothing weird happened. Is there a dead cat wedged up inside there, or something? Nope. Looks clean. Well, maybe I just need a new mower. This one WAS a wedding gift, after all (dear GOD, did I just say that out loud in my head?) Wow, geez. Okay, soooo, new mower? Perhaps, but unlikely. Mechanical? Well, it was never billowing smoke, so I'm guessing nothing serious. Still, Hill, you're hardly a rocket scientist when it comes to mechanics. You once plugged in a toaster and the plug exploded in your hand, turning your palm black, remember? And then there was that unfortunate incident with the microwave popcorn in college......

I knew I was going to have to contact someone with far more expertise than my own (which is basically anyone on the planet, including my three unruly children), to figure out what I needed to do in order to conquer the turf, and fly a flag of gnome defeat in my yard. Ugh, I hate doing this. This is SUCH poor, single mom behavior, and I am NOT a "poor, single mom". Crap-nuggets. So, I did the unthinkable-- the absolute most humiliating, most shameful, most I'd-rather-die-than-do-what-I'm-about-to-do thing-- I made the call of shame. I called the ex-husband.

As I dialed the number, I grumbled to myself. Ugh, WHY? I hate this SO much right now, and he will love it SO much right now, which makes me hate it even more. Don't get me wrong-- I am fortunate enough to have a pretty decent relationship with my ex, but there are just certain things that I don't like to give away, especially to him, and my pride is one of them. Good grief, he is going to eat this up. Sigh. He IS familiar with this mower though, and he's almost always right about this stuff, so if it gets the yard done, so be it-- let him have the satisfaction of feeling needed, and you can go back to your life as if none of this ever happened. The phone rang... and it rang... and it rang... and I was greeted with his voicemail message. Yes! Good! Okay, awesome. That works out, because I'd rather just ask someone else anyway. I have plenty of guy friends who can surely get to the bottom of this. Pride retained.

But see, the problem with having guy friends is that while they certainly don't achieve the same type of satisfaction as an ex-husband does when you call them with a stupid question, they do have the unique pleasure of being able to give you grief about it for years to come. As much as I wanted my lawn done, wrapped up with pretty pink paper and a sparkly bow on top, I was not quite sure I was willing to put myself at risk for years of heckling. What is worse is that most of my male compadres are all quite mechanical-- bike saavy, car saavy, computer saavy, and would mock me for ages for my sheer lack of technical common sense. But I can take pictures, and put cute outfits together, and bake really good cookies!, I'd insist, amidst their belly-laughs. Still, I had a feeling that my protests would go unheard, and I'd be left with the reputation of That Single Mom Who Everyone Assumes Is A Lesbian Because She Has A Mohawk But Who Still Can't Figure Out The Lawn Mower. No girl wants that.

Regardless, I sucked it up, and began texting a friend who I thought may offer the biggest wealth of knowledge with the least amount of heckling, and as I began to punch out my question, a phone call came in... from the ex-husband. Okay, Hill. What's it going to be? Humiliation by friend, or humiliation by someone who, at times, already has a low opinion of you? Tick-tock, tick-tock-- eenie-meenie-miney-moe. I chose to throw my pride to the wolves, and answered the phone.

Would you believe that there is this little thing called a spark plug in the front of the mower? Okay, before you start screaming at the computer because of my utter stupidity, let me clarify that I did know that mowers have spark plugs, but I never once paid attention to where, or what was required for these little gems to function. Apparently there is also this lovely little wire, with a cap that slips over the top of the spark plug so that the engine will actually fire! Whatdya know! Whoopsie-daisy, in all of my declogging adventures, I must've bumped that little cap clean off that spark plug, and lo and behold, poor little Honda would not start.

Fast-forward forty-five minutes later, and my grass was cut, and partially weed-eated. Yes, I say "partially" because the weed-eater quit about half-way through the backyard, and there is an actual, honest-to-goodness law that states you cannot make two calls of shame in one 24-hour period. As appreciative as I was (and am) of his knowledge and assistance, I cannot bring myself to inquire about Black & Decker's malfunction. It would be easier and far less embarassing to just go buy a new one. No lie. Besides, I believe that the source of the problem lies in that Black & Decker was not all that appreciative of how I treated her beau, Honda, and has decided to get her panties in a twist and go on strike. Little does she know that Honda and I have decided to go to counseling, so that misunderstandings such as these will not happen again. It will take effort, but I am sure these wounds will heal quickly for us both. They better, anyway, because as we all know, spring has only just begun, and heaven knows those pesky gnomes will be back before I know it.