Mow, baby, mow

I feel all manly when I mow the lawn. 

Once the weeds hit mid-calf in the spring, I know it’s time to wrangle the lawn mower out of the garage, kick the tires, and rev that puppy. I’d like a push mower so I can feel even heartier and eco-friendly, but the house came with a mower, so I wield it, happy it’s not snow I’m blowing out of the way. I have old sandals I keep for mowing, but my feet still get all green and grassy, part of the charm.

The growth in our yard can hardly be called grass, but it’s nice nonetheless to mow it in orderly stripes. While my front yard will never resemble Fenway or a golf course (watering the lawn feels ridiculous and wasteful), it’ll do. Plus, it’s satisfying to mow down anything that gets in the way. Except for the random violet that crops up in the most inopportune spot. Hello fragile violet.

And with a yard sale scheduled for Saturday, we can’t be losing items—or shoppers—in the weeds.

mowing weeds

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2 thoughts on “Mow, baby, mow

  1. Frankly, I cannot stand to mow anything, but I love baseball. Baseball gives us time to drink beer and look at the grass-mowing patterns in the outfield. I have to say that the California Angels (despite the recent final Sox/Angels scores) have excellent outfield mowing, somewhat on the scope of alien crop circles. How do they do this? Can we mow our home lawns in crisp overlapping stripes, and who will have the perspective to tell us when we have achieved perfection?

  2. If you have a little extra time to mow, I’m sure Mark would love to have you over to tackle ours every weekend if you love it so much :).

    Oh, and, don’t you know you’re not supposed to wear sandals when you mow the lawn. That’s breaking some kind of universal safety code.

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