(I haven’t written in a long time. Seem to have lost my “voice.” This is my first attempt back at the keyboard. Don’t judge.)
When my husband is bothered by something, he mows the grass. Even when there’s really nothing more than dirt to mow. (I’m sort of glad he’s not a barber.)
Life is just better with a Craftsman lawnmower and a Heineken Light.
The hours and distance logged on his Craftsman 320 vary greatly according to the scope of his concern. Upon finishing the front yard, he’ll come in all hot and tired and confess that his Little League team hasn’t been batting as well as he’d hoped.
He might mow ours and four other neighborhoods the week my Citi Card statement arrives in the mail. After the Dublin Park and Rec Department cuts him a check for his work on all the road shoulders and Stubbs Park, he’ll stagger into the kitchen, ready to voice his concern over my spending.
I’m looking for my statement any day now. If you happen to see a 40-something guy randomly landscaping your yard, just know that “yes” I DID have to have those shoes.