The other day Chris said to me: "You know what? My grass is
looking good. Lookin' REAL GOOD." He
said it as though the fescue in the backyard had suddenly developed breasts
"Yes, it does look nice," I said, looking up from my copy of
"Yeah it does! It looks AMAZING."
It's spring again, the time of the year when animals come
out of hibernation, when baby critters are born, when men ultimately talk about
fertilizing their lawns whenever gathered together. It's apropos. At a recent
gathering of friends, I noticed that the conversation from the man-half of the group
delved into grass fertilization and yard work and mowing and machinery. Whereas
a man's fishing stories are akin to a woman's labor story, so is yard work
discussion akin to something chicks talk about, I'm too tired to think of a
competent analogy. You get it.
The other day we were at Lowe's, often thought of as man
territory, but I love it there. I love the shiny objects and the smell of the
wood. Basically, I love it for the same reasons as would a cat. Chris convinced
himself that he needed a blower-slash-sucker. Some mechanized elephant to remove the dead leaves from under the deck and from the flowerbeds. He
spent thirty minutes examining the different types of blower-sucker machines (my
mind is about to explode from the juvenile opportunities here) before trotting
out proudly to meet me in the garden department with the box in hand.
That afternoon as I pruned and planted like a 50s' housewife, he stood in the backyard and adorned himself with the blower's bag and strap as though gearing up for a joust. He slipped on a pair of the manliest garden gloves I could find him (blue and green stripes), a pair of yellow goggles, and for a moment, I could've sworn I heard the Vienna Boys' Choir and saw a Photoshop starburst behind him as he stood satisfied, his hands on his hips.