It seems that Murphy, of Murphy’s Law fame…. works weekends. Just when I believe that I am save from his Law related mayhem…. he strikes.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that I was having to mow the lawn on the weekend, hurriedly – in an attempt to outrun an impending rainstorm. I start up the mower…. no gas. I add gas… spill it all over me. Now, I get a headache from the lawn mower after about an hour or so anyway, due to the toxic gasses that it belches out everywhere while burning its sinful fossil fuels (it takes about 2.5 hours to mow the lawn). If I spill gas…. it happens rather quickly. If I actually get it ON me… I get sick almost right away. Naturally, this is what occurred. So now I am not only fighting the impending rainstorm, the darkness of night – but the increasingly tumultuous headache residing in that part of your brain right behind your eyes.
So I mow a few lines up and down the largest patch of grass. Then the belt that drives the “self” propel feature of the fossil fueled grass whacker decides to fall off completely. This results in much tearing apart of the mower, some not so gentle swearing, and the eventual consternation as to how to put it all back together (once the &#$&@ belt goes back on). So, once reassembly was accomplished, I walk another 10 feet with it, and the belt falls off again.
More swearing.
Adding to the pleasure and enjoyment of my leisurely walk in the backyard was the fact that the fog that had hung over my house all day had decided, as fog tends to do, to soak the grass seemingly beyond saturation. This means that the sinful fossil fueled grass whacker can’t chuck the grass back into its bag as often, requiring me to actually bend over and empty it more frequently that I otherwise would with dry grass. Sigh…
More swearing.
I had come to the last section of lawn, with only a few more instances of self propel drive belt rebellion, and guess what? It starts to RAIN! I can’t believe it… and its that kind of cold rain that drills right through your tshirt. I was just starting to think that its ok, because I was almost done.
Then the belt falls off again.
Even more swearing.
Finally I conquered the arduous task before me, got the infernal grass whacker back into the shed… noting that the rain had suddenly stopped, and flung myself into my bedroom to relax and watch some television. Escape at last. No matter how bad Murphy comes after me, I seem to prevail. He might work weekends, but I can eventually outsmart him and therefore survive the experience. Whew!
Then I plunge a sewing needle into my thumb. Deep.