XXXIX. Call Me Bigfoot
"I think I'll mow the yard with my new mower, then sit out in the back yard and enjoy the evening while catching up on my e-mail," I told her as she kept reading. "I am really excited about reducing my carbon footprint."
She turned a page and read the first sentence aloud, but under her breath, before falling silent again.
"Don't forget, I am fixing hummus tonight!" I said. She covered her face with the magazine.
I put on some eco-friendly sunscreen and pulled the reel mower from the shed. I had let the grass get taller because I read somewhere that it is "healthier for the grass."
A reel mower is not powered by gas or electricity. It is the kind of mower our great-grandparents used. They used it because it was their best hope of getting the grass shorter. I use it because I care. I care deeply, about being judged by my other Mac-owning/ NPR-supporting friends. My great-grandparents didn't care like this. Only a few of their friends had Macs.
I pressed play in the sunshine and pure Beatles goodness poured from my iPod as I pulled on my hemp-fibered gloves. I began pushing the mower. I got about two feet before the fescue had covered it and completely clogged the blades.
"Damn grass is too tall," I muttered to God. I raised the wheel height and started pushing again. Three feet this time. I raised the mower to its maximum height, so that even though the grass was technically "cut," a lion could still successfully hide in it.
I quickly discovered that to ensure uniformity of grass height with a non-powered reel mower, one must back up and go over every inch of turf about four times. Therefore, I completed one side of The White Album before I had completed one length of the front lawn.
I was really sweating now, and eco-friendly sunscreen was coming off my face in sheets. I mowed and mowed and mowed and mowed, pushing like hell through the tall grass, and backing up to do it again. The mower model is formally named "the Classic," but they ought to rename it "the Sisyphus."
When I got up under the trees I received an extra surprise. Sticks will stop a reel mower dead in its tracks. It is violent too. After the fifth time my momentum doubled me over the handles forcing out a primal scream, I gave up. I went to the back yard and burned a barrel of oil and opened a coal factory.
She turned a page and read the first sentence aloud, but under her breath, before falling silent again.
"Don't forget, I am fixing hummus tonight!" I said. She covered her face with the magazine.
I put on some eco-friendly sunscreen and pulled the reel mower from the shed. I had let the grass get taller because I read somewhere that it is "healthier for the grass."
A reel mower is not powered by gas or electricity. It is the kind of mower our great-grandparents used. They used it because it was their best hope of getting the grass shorter. I use it because I care. I care deeply, about being judged by my other Mac-owning/ NPR-supporting friends. My great-grandparents didn't care like this. Only a few of their friends had Macs.
I pressed play in the sunshine and pure Beatles goodness poured from my iPod as I pulled on my hemp-fibered gloves. I began pushing the mower. I got about two feet before the fescue had covered it and completely clogged the blades.
"Damn grass is too tall," I muttered to God. I raised the wheel height and started pushing again. Three feet this time. I raised the mower to its maximum height, so that even though the grass was technically "cut," a lion could still successfully hide in it.
I quickly discovered that to ensure uniformity of grass height with a non-powered reel mower, one must back up and go over every inch of turf about four times. Therefore, I completed one side of The White Album before I had completed one length of the front lawn.
I was really sweating now, and eco-friendly sunscreen was coming off my face in sheets. I mowed and mowed and mowed and mowed, pushing like hell through the tall grass, and backing up to do it again. The mower model is formally named "the Classic," but they ought to rename it "the Sisyphus."
When I got up under the trees I received an extra surprise. Sticks will stop a reel mower dead in its tracks. It is violent too. After the fifth time my momentum doubled me over the handles forcing out a primal scream, I gave up. I went to the back yard and burned a barrel of oil and opened a coal factory.
posted by Clubber Lang at 9:37 AM
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