A man's "mow"-tivation

 I left behind me, a man on the East Coast, determined to grow grass from barren soil to encounter another man, on the West Coast, with the same maddeningly obsessive penchant. As I admired the lush but spotty green growth defying the desertous terrain like tufts of hair bravely clinging to a balding man's head, I stood, amazed, that man had not yet managed to ship sod to the moon and retrofitted the Rover with a blade deck. 

Such was my introduction to Douglas.

Not wishing to have Douglas's first impression of me scarred by my mocking of the genesis that would one day be his botanically-inspired backyard, I instead began quibbling with him about the scam surrounding surface area, volume, and capitalism pertaining to ice cubes.

"Oh my gosh, are we STILL talking about this?" Sydney groused as we embarked on a five-mile hike around the reservoir. I glanced at my daughter, who I currently HATED because she'd suggested this fun, little adventure in front of Doug and I couldn't yet reveal the depths of my sluggishness and sloth to him yet. The packed parking lot was a sign that the Lord was going to perform a divine intervention on my behalf. Our following a pair of men in pressed, pleated pants and ties who had just finished their shift of selling salvation to the sweaty to their soon-to-be available spot, proved the Lord was on Sydney's side. "Damn it," I muttered.

"It was a GIANT, rectangular ice cube that practically took up my entire glass," I argued, wishing I'd broken in my new sneakers for this little marathon.  It's only redeeming value, as far as I could see, was that it could double as a magnifying glass so I could see the microscopic prices on the menu. "They normally use those for Old Fashions," Sydney agreed comfortingly, relaying an uncomfortable familiarity with alcoholic beverages to her soon-to-be-limping mother. The fact that she has a plug-in, electric wine bottle opener on her kitchen counter was another clue that my sweet baboo may have graduated from grade school lunch pouches. 

Douglas listened attentively to this idiotic debate with good grace and helpfully tried to reassure me that the ice cube wasn't intended to cheat me out of my fair share of bacchian delight. He dropped the word "displacement" and my mind broke off of the blister forming on my heel and whipped right over to Douglas. Who did he think he was? This guy barely knows me and he's going to try to use science and reason to calm me down?!? Reading my fury as confusion, Doug hurried to clarify USING MATH...tossing a ratio-based fraction grenade into a battle didn't know he'd initiated. 

It was a LONG walk.

Doug was bravely convalescing from gum surgery ( that I had trouble taking seriously because he'd been directed, in case of an emergency, to plug Orbit gum into any gaping wounds...that is SO 2022. Back in the day, the wizened, trail-weary gunslinger would tear off a slug of tobacco with his teeth, masticate it and then mold it to the wound), Sydney's wisdom teeth were erupting out of her mouth, and I was hemorrhaging from the heel. We returned, tired, to our miraculous parking spot...constructed an triangular altar (we refrained from calling it a tepee after a passionate political correction debate) of thanksgiving out of recyclable materials and went home. 

Hungry, we stood in the kitchen while Doug considered his limited options. Man, after all, cannot subside on Orbit gum alone. Sydney had religiously researched compatible food for him and handed him an applesauce pouch. I watched Doug from the corner of my eye as he dubiously accepted this kind offering. This was a man who could direct reluctant vegetation to grow in inhospitable places. This man wielded words like "surface area" and "displacement" with confident authority. This man wanted to drive HIMSELF home after painful gum surgery. But was he man enough to eat an applesauce pouch?

With grim determination and a steady grip, Doug tore the top off and consumed his soft food. Pleased, Sydney resumed changing out the garbage from the tall kitchen receptacle. Wrestling with the bag that refused to fit snugly over the top, Sydney began to grow frustrated. With a strong arm, Doug gently nudged her away from the villainous vat. "Here," he said heroically, "hold my applesauce pouch."