“Oh my God” she screamed,
my wife of these seven years past.
“Oh no, I can't ... I don't ...”
words clearly failing her.
“What are you all excited about?”
I queried as I turned into the dooryard
and drove past the house,
“Where's the fire?”
“The grass!” she squeaked, horrified.
It wasn't that high when I left eight hours ago!!!
And sure enough, upon closer examination,
(now that I wasn't hunting for the cell phone to call 911)
the grass was definitely taller. By a couple of inches.
“I'm going to have to mow it in the morning!”
came the plaintive wail from the wife unit.
“I'm not ready for summer to be here;
you haven't fixed the riding mower yet
from when I busted it last year.”
“I can't push-mow the lawn when it is that high, you know,
and I so wanted to have a nice lawn this year.”
We didn't last year as the mower, she broke, and the
grass, it got too high for any mower to cut it, so it went to seed.
You want to know the really sad part of all this?
She wants me to fix the mower tomorrow,
even though she
hasn't got a day off for another week.
And so it goes...