Two Chicks and a Lawnmower

How many chicks does it take to start a lawnmower? At least two. When I first moved in with St. Mary a couple of years ago, she’d just bought her home and we threw ourselves in to planting a garden, pruning the roses and managing all the fun yard care stuff.

This time when I moved in, neither of us have had the inclination, or energy to tackle what has become a jungle.  We’re the house on the block with the half foot of grass and the weed patches overtaking the curb.

Today as I was remodeling my new website, St. Mary came to my door, “I need your help with the lawnmower.” She hung her head.

Nothing to be ashamed of, really, I hate that stupid lawnmower.  I was there when she picked it out two years ago, and there the first summer we tried to start it –over and over and over – until a neighbor got so sick of us yelling, and cursing and revving the engine, he climbed over the fence and started it for us. Nice guy.

Anywhoo, jump to today and the nice neighbor wasn’t home, damnit. So it came down to both of us taking turns holding it while the other yanked the cord, flooding the engine, kicking the tires in frustration and stripping down layers of clothing as we both broke a sweat just trying to get it started.

Then I remembered: My Volkswagen bug in high school. One night when I had a fight with MeMe, I tried to get out of the driveway in a hurry and flooded the engine thereby getting trapped in the driver’s seat long enough for her to yell at me. 

Solution, wait five minutes and try again.

So we came in the house, had a drink, chatted and then revved each other up with phrases like – “Happy thoughts”, “Positive Affirmations” and “Oh yeah, don’t I just call Friar Thomas and have him come over and start the mower then kick him out?” “Because we’re empowered strong women and if we can’t start a fucking lawnmower without help, we deserve to have a jungle lawn.”

After the half-time pep talk we went out, did our stretches and a few minutes of ‘Eye of the Tiger’ running in place – then assumed the positions.  St. Mary holding the safety lever down, feet spread for support with one foot holding the back tire in place – Me, gripping the pull cord with both fists, body turned at an angle for maximum torque.

One.

Two.

Three.

YANK!

I yanked and the engine roared to life. Woooooo-hooooo! We both yelped, surprised and gratified and overwhelmed with our own accomplishment – when suddenly, the mower coughed, sputtered and died.  Did I mention how bad I hate that fucking mower?

Repeat processes A-Z for the next half hour before it finally wakes up enough to mow everything – BUT - a three foot square in the front yard.  Right out front.

So there you have it.  I’ve never had so much trouble with a mower in my life, I’ve mowed lawns since I was 12 and knew how to push the damn things and this one mower somehow has the unbelievable ability to make me feel like a helpless female – have I mentioned, how much I hate that fucking mower?

So, now the lawn mower has a new name, Reggie.  Fitting, right? Next weekend I intend to take Reggie out back and run through the dog mines, then perhaps I’ll push him through a patch or two of blackberry bramble, after which I’ll roll his temperamental ass into a bog and spend the rest of the evening on the back porch sipping my lemonade.  Sounds like a date.