I was trying to be helpful. I wanted to show my hard-working spouse, the Carpenter, some support. So I did the unthinkable: I took the bold step of entering the Carpenter’s terrain, the manly man world of landscape beautification.
It began with cutting the grass. For reasons probably outlined in the fine print of my marriage certificate, cutting grass falls under the Carpenter’s realm of responsibilities. Sometimes I think it’s because he will do anything to avoid being inside, where I am likely to need help performing a task far less interesting than walking down rows of grass with obsessive accuracy to ensure grass blade depth and carpet-like streaks in the lawn’s appearance. It’s serious work.
Maybe my inner hippie loves the meadow look of our lawn, where weeds and grass co-mingle in a forest of lush, wild existence between the backyard tent, trampoline, pool and the various sports debris scattered by children mere years away from being trusted with lawn maintenance. They will be introduced to the toxic-burping gas lawn mower. A monkey could walk in off the street and be trusted with that task, but not me. Any relationship between the lawn mower and myself is strictly prohibited.
Really, I was trying to help the Carpenter relax. I figured there is nothing sexier (absolutely nothing) than a man who washes dishes. Could the same not be true of a well-meaning wife who helps cut grass? I decided to use the non-toxic push lawn mower. Despite knowing its blades were dull, I walked back and forth, as straight as I could (being easily distracted) in an attempt that resulted in trampling the long, plush grass into furrows of mulch gone wrong. Mother Nature would approve. The Carpenter? Not so much.
But I didn’t stop there. I decided to plant some flowers. The Carpenter loves to garden. I do not. Yet our house looked like it needed something (understatement), and a few flowers would brighten it up, I reasoned. How could I possibly screw up flowers?
I took to the front garden with a flat of flowers, digging mini-holes in the dirt, just as I’d seen the Carpenter do before. That should have been my first clue. I started to pull out these weird rock things everywhere in the dirt, looking kind of like malformed onions. Then it hit me. These were the Carpenter’s tulips. He had done this before. Yikes. Quick as a bunny, I stuffed them back in haphazard holes and moved my flowers to a new home. Something tells me those tulips were replanted upside down. We’ll know in May.
The Carpenter returned home and saw his mangled lawn, his frustrated flower beds and his dirt-covered wife. Pretending not to look startled, he graciously faked his appreciation. It was the thought that counted. Good enough. Five minutes later, I heard the emissions-spouting lawn mower purr to life. By dinner the wild dilapidated meadow was an army of green, crisp blades, standing at attention (show off).
Later, the Carpenter reciprocated my affectionate gesture by washing the dinner dishes. It is true; there is nothing sexier than a man who washes the dishes. And let’s face it; I don’t really want to cut the grass.