Mamacita says: The Sears lawn mower guy who was scheduled to show up at 1:00 finally came at 3:45. He made up for his tardiness by doing a great job, and giving me a “spring discount,” which, these days, means that instead of asking me for an arm and a leg, he required only an arm from me.
The first mowing of the season is something I look forward to all winter. It’s a signal that the new season has begun. Even if it snows now, and in Indiana it very well could, I still consider the season officially changed over once I’ve mown for that first time.
Before the Sears truck’s dust had vanished, I had started up that mower and was riding around the yard, mentally twirling a lasso and hoping to attract the attention of a young John Travolta. (Note to self: remember that he seems to be impressed by housework. That in and of itself, without the absurdities attached to middle-aged fantasies, would have killed the deal.)
Next week, perhaps I’ll be riding one of those lightning-fast bike things Luke Skywalker was zipping through the Ewok forest on. <–sentence ending with preposition
Or maybe I’ll be flying across the sky in a Winnebago, chased by ignorant rednecks, and making bags of flour fly whilst keeping an eye out for the mothership.
I’ve been known to sing, under my breath, the “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” songs, over and over as I made my laps around the yard. At least, I THINK I was singing low; the engine is loud, so it’s possible the neighbors weren’t all going inside just because the dew was falling.
I’ve tried mowing while listening to my Mp3 playlist, but I can’t do that without singing along. My playlists are always bizarre beyond description somewhat eclectic, and while it’s bad enough that I subject my neighbors to “. . . what do you see, you people gazing at me, you see a doll on a music box that’s wound by a key. . . .” I think it might be worse to subject them to “. . .Billy, don’t be a hero, don’t be a fool with your liiiife. . . .” and other equally classy tunes.
This summer, maybe I’ll indulge my Harry Potter obsession while mowing. A Firebolt would be more fun than a Sears 1990.
Also, there are so many onions growing in my yard, I seriously considered harvesting them and using them in the soup. But mmmm, there aren’t many aromas that can equal that unique, summer-night-freshly-mown-grass smell of onions, honeysuckle, and the whiff of lilac every time I rounded that one corner.
I love mowing the grass.
I do not, however, love housework, and that is why, I’m just sure, that young Travolta was never really interested. He must have gotten word of my untidy ways. It’s quite odd that I think of him while I’m mowing, because he’s never been any kind of favorite with me in any other context.
It takes two hours or more to mow the main parts of my large lawn. (For most of it, we have to use a tractor. Not a riding mower: a TRACTOR.) With a little imagination, however, the time flies so fast, it seems like ten minutes some days.
I know I’m weird. But thanks for your concern.
What, this wasn’t the kind of “first time” you were thinking of? I have NO IDEA what you’re talking about.