A shorts story that's kind of long: For better or WORSE

"First we'll mow the lawn. Next we'll trim the hedges and then, finally, we'll bed down the gardens for the winter," Brad announced, ticking off the items on his fingers while simultaneously ticking off his wife. This was, obviously, a nightmare. But as my slave labor had sloughed off to San Diego in a genius maneuver of getting out of chores, I was the one left holding the bag (of lawn clippings). "I did (idiotically) say for better or worse," I muttered as I adjusted my bright pink headphones before yanking the lawn mower cord fifty times. Brad abandoned his own mower and approached mine, pulled the cord once, and gave me a thumbs up. "Thanks," I yelled sarcastically over the sound of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody drowning out my shuddering mower. I also offered Brad's back a finger of my own. For some unfathomable reason, in Brad's opinion, completing household tasks together (ugh) falls into the for better category. Not eating a vat of chocolate pudding together. No. Mowing the lawn...together.  That's for better? Is he crazy?!? Well...as always, the blog speaks for itself.

I have to admit having a groovy new phone has really improved lawn mowing for me. Rather than chanting I hate this fifty ka-zillion times in between calculating how much it would cost to gravel my lawn before realizing it would just be cheaper to hire a hit-man, I am instead chanting I hate this in between choruses of 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover. And thank God for Queen. I had over half of the front lawn done (crooked because I was enthusiastically head-banging blind for most of it) before I realized the song was about my life:  Bismillah! No, he will not let me go (inside) - let me go! Will not let me go! Let me go (never) No, no, no, no, no, no, no! I didn't dare air guitar because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get the mower started again and couldn't emotionally bear another cheerful thumbs up. I'll show him where to stick that thumb. Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry. I love Brad Mosiman.

A downside of the headphones that no one told me is a medical condition called swamp-ear. It was like my ears were maple sap sweat spiles. Oh how I wish that my oddly-shaped ear canals could anchor those cute little buds! Without the necessary funds for corrective ear canal surgery to straighten out the mysterious labyrinth that is my auditory chamber, I am resigned to wearing musical ear-muffs. It is the cross I must bear until my gofundme comes through.

My lawn mowing finale was cut short when I was chased by a snake. "Time for lunch," Brad announced after finishing both of our sections.

Maybe he'll forget about the rest of his list, I wished fervently through lunch as we watched Barney parade a pageant's worth of perspective suitors for Andy through his living room. We were surprised to learn that neither of us ever thought that Helen was the right choice for Mayberry's sheriff. "I always liked Ellie," I said. "Me too," Brad agreed. Wow. Thirty years of marriage and we're still learning important things about one another. "Okay," Brad began, "time for those hedges." Oh no.

Shouldn't that be a one-person job? I mean, it's not like we can BOTH hold onto the hedge trimmers. But no. I was assigned the important role of rake master. "What are you doing?" Brad asked as I stood at the ready, holding the rake. "I'm holding the rake," I told him. "You're suppose to be raking along the bushes so I can see if I missed any parts," he said. "Really? Rake the bushes?" I was befuddled. He has to be making that up. Trimming up the forsythia bush, we encountered some limbs too thick for the hedge clippers. What to do? IGNORE THEM, I screamed in my head.  Brad was already on his way to collect another power tool. "The lilac bush could use some shaping," Brad mused as I moaned. I was now wrestling branches bigger than me into my wheelbarrow. Wait! Where did this wheelbarrow come from? The sun was beginning to set. "Where are you going?" Brad asked. "I'm dumping the wheelbarrow," I told him. "We have to dump it over the hill," Brad explained. I looked at our overgrown field to the hill in the distance. He nodded. Tears welled in my eyes. "We'll have to get the trailer," he smiled.

"What are you doing now?" I asked, squinting as dusk shaded him from his precarious perch in the pine tree. With a power tool. Balanced with one leg on the rail of our trailer and the other leg braced against the tree, Brad wrestled a branch down. And then another. And then another. Until he realized that I hadn't latched the trailer's hitch to the 4-wheeler properly. A small "who's-at-fault" debate almost concluded the evening's activities until Brad realized what was happening and accepted blame for his near-death experience so we could continue working...by the light of the flippin' moon, y'all!!! The font might be arial but the tone was pure Southern outrage. So with enough lumber to keep a saw mill busy for a week, we loaded up the trailer and headed for the hills. My job was to sit among the wood to keep it steady for the ride. I was, in all actuality, a human-kabob. When we reached our destination, Brad had to extract me like I was a little marble from a Ker-plunk game. A sudden sound, like a tear in the space/time continuum gap, had us both freezing in place. "Was that your pants?" Brad asked slowly. I stared at him, wide-eyed (by the light of the flippin' moon, y'all) and nodded. "Are those your favorite shorts?" he asked. I nodded. "I think we're done for the day," he said.