This "snow" way to treat a lady in August

 It was our last week-end in August.

"You know what we should do?" my husband said.

I perked right up, my mind whirling with the possibilities of the fun we could have, on this...our last few days of summer.

Motioning with his arm for me to follow him on this memorable adventure, Brad headed outside. Positively QUAKING with curiosity, I hurried after him only to be completely befuddled as he began to wrestle our generator out of the garage. I could think of NOTHING fun to associate with our generator.

"We're going to see if it starts," Brad informed me happily.

It did.

High on the success of that little enterprise, Brad then tugged out the snowblower...in AUGUST.

In our family, we are big on thinking about our future selves. For example, how is Future Amy going to feel the next day when Present Amy stays up until 2 am reading? Present Brad is ALWAYS talking about the economic planning surrounding Future Amy's retirement which is a total bummer when Present Amy wants to go to Disney. 

"Won't we be happy that we did this in August rather than in November or December?" Brad asked, as
he valiantly pulled the starter cord. I nodded, settling into a nearby lawn chair and popping the top on a Moscow Mule. On the twentieth try, the snowblower flickered briefly to life. Brad made a few adjustments and then grasped the cord again...only for it to immediately snap.  

I froze in place, knowing that the attention of the T-Rex (and Brad Mosiman) are drawn to movement. I was pleasantly surprised when my husband simply shrugged. Tossing it to the ground, Brad said, "Well, it's not going to start that way." 

Bouncing along in his ignorant bubble that this process is SO much easier in summer, he began the process of dismantling the housing unit for the cord. Easier said than done, of course. I watched (on my second drink, by now) as he tried to meticulously "fish" the starter cord through with fishing line before finally deciding "housing compartment be damned" and just magically wrapped the cord around some dangerous motor part and gave it a go, grinning at me when it worked. I got up, went in the house, and grabbed another beverage. 

Now, all that was left (of my few waning hours of summer) was to tip the heavy, cumbersome, filthy snowblower vertically at least a dozen times to poke, wiggle, twist, and lube different parts while I lamented that these same verbs could have been applied to some other fun, end-of-summer activity. 

FINALLY, thanks to Brad's diligent attention,  the snowblower turned on. Me...not so much.  

Let's just say that, for the Mosimans, the end of summer did not go out with a bang.