the lawnmower man
I’ve lived in this house for two months now. Sure, I still have a few unpacked boxes. Some things stacked in corners without a permanent home. Rooms that have yet to reach their full potential. Weeds in the yard, desperately waiting for my husband to fire up the landmower. Oh, he’s mowed the yard once or twice. Maybe a few more times than that…I’ve lost track. I mean, mowing the lawn isn’t exactly high on our priority list these days. It falls somewhere between unpacking the books that don’t have a shelf yet, and organizing my spices. But since I do actually cook (the bet be damned, I’ve done a lot of cooking around here!) the spices are in progress.
But despite the perpetual hush of our sad little push mower, I still hear the growling sound of a mower on a daily basis.
Because I live next door to the fucking lawn mower man!
Yep, that’s right. Sandwiched between me and the Goonies, lives a man who clearly needs more OCD therapy than I do. He has roughly two acres. Two acres that once belonged to the farm I live on. And he climbs aboard his trusty steed, firing up the engine on that bad boy to mow the crap out of those two acres.
Every. Freaking. Day.
And I do mean every freaking day since I moved in.
At first I thought I was just really bad at keeping track. I mean, who mows every day? I don’t think even Major League Baseball mows everyday (and guys, feel free to tell me if I’m wrong). But this guy…the very same guy who warned my husband about touching his do dong after pulling weeds (in case it was poison ivy) this guy loves his grass. I mean LOVES his grass. Or hates it. I guess I don’t know which. We love ours. We nuture it and watch it grow. Then we shoo the chickens to the long patches and wait for them to trim it down a little.
Lawn Mower Man rides around like a crazy man on a gas powered tractor slicing his grass at the knees, trampling what survives the blades with the wide tires of his beast. Yep, I’m thinking hate.
Well, I’m starting to work up a little hate on this side of the property line.
Hate for the sound of the engine roaring to life at eight am on a Saturday. Hate for the sound of the engine roaring to life at five-thirty pm on a Monday…or a Tuesday…a Wednesday…a…errr…you get the idea, right?
The man has no idea he’s a walking time bomb, just begging for a PMS attack to creep up on him like a fucking stealth ninja! Doesn’t he know I could just snap one day? They’ll find me, dressed in camoflage leggins, hiding in my tall grass, lobbing water balloons filled with weed killer into his yard.
Ok…so maybe I’m getting a little carried away. Maybe I should just bake him some cookies and leave a trail to my side of the property line. I mean, if he loves to mow that much, couldn’t he at least just ride on over here and do my lawn too?
After alll, isn’t that what they call being neighborly?
Until the next time…I’ll be playing my music loud enough to drown out the mower.