"Miss Martha, you are so weird!" "I know . . . isn't it wonderful!?"

lawn and such

So, as some of you may know, I have finally admitted that mowing the lawn is no longer something that I should be or can do.  So, Kenny mowed it last week, and it looked like shit, and grass was tracked all over my house because he didn’t use the bag because he’s convinced we have a mulching mower (which we do not).

Now, today, he goes outside again (about a week later, that’s fine) to “fix it” and do the rest of the yard work, which, for him, involves a gas-powered edger, a gas-powered weed whacker, a gas-power leaf blower, and the gas-powered lawn mower.  Please bear in mind I can accomplish the same thing with a pair of his discarded mechanics gloves (with holes in the fingertips – not great for the nails, but who cares), a pair of hand trimmers, and perhaps, on rare ocassion, a trowel, and the gas-powered lawn mower (with the bag attached).  He comes inside, sweaty (understandably) and cranky.  I follow him outside while he’s putting away the lawn mower and (lie) say, “Oh Honey, it looks so good!”  “No it doesn’t, I still can’t see”  (He has Bell’s Palsy, in his complete defense and cannot close his right eye all the way, so it is possible that he can’t see fabulously.)

Okay, so he goes inside, towels off the sweat, takes a shower, and lies down . . . he is still sleeping 3, 4 hours later.  So . . . in comes my ego.

I put on my “mowing” shorts (read: the only ones that don’t fall off without a belt), and my “mowing” flip flops (read: I ruined them once, might as well keep it up) and go outside to fix the lawn properly.  It’s AMAZING what following my own advice can accomplish.  Granted, he’d mowed the bulk of the length of the lawn, but I still had to stop to empty the bag 4 or 5 times . . . because THAT’S WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO TO MAKE THE LAWN LOOK NICE.  20 minutes later (if that), I’m done.

So, why is it that I, WHO CAN’T FEEL EITHER LEG, THE LEFT SIDE OF MY BODY AT ALL, OR SEE MUCH OF ANYTHING OUT OF MY RIGHT EYE, WHICH IS TWITCHING MADLY AS I TYPE THIS . . . why is it that I can do all that, and then come in side, to see that he has moved from his napping chair to BED, take a shower and then start doing laundry.

Oh yeah!  That’s right . . . LOTS and LOTS (perhaps too much) of drugs to keep me upright and WILL POWER and stubborness.  Just because I was basically using the lawn mower as a walker doesn’t mean that STILL didn’t do a better job than my husband who would criticize my mowing if I missed a dandelion.  Yeah.

Decision time.  *raises an angry eyebrow*

Moi, et nul autre.

As I said to my guru last night, “I’ve got me.”

In the throes of a multiple sclerosis relapse that has got me worn down to tears and nothing . . . when anger and disgust take over, it’s amazing what I my ego can push my body to do.  I’m spending my days packed in ice packs (wrapped in towels), or floating in my claw foot tub (yes, be jealous, it’s one of the reasons I chose this house), or sitting on my couch trying to find a position that won’t send my legs into spasms that could make me scream loud enough to be heard in Roseland.

I will admit, that, at this very moment, I *know* that I should not have done that, I’m lucky that I didn’t hurt myself or fall . . . and it will probably cause an(other) arguement with Ken . . . and all of my family members who were so relieved when I told them that I finally stopped mowing my lawn will be disappointed . . . but I AM THE MOTHER FUCKING BIG FISH.

That is something that I have to remind myself to NEVER EVER FORGET.

And now, blessed readers, surprises of surprises . . . I need a nap.  (But first I have to put laundry in the dryer and start another load.)

And it’s time, perhaps, for some bold and drastic life changes.  But, that’s a tale for another memoir.  (Which you all better buy, because you’ll be my fact checkers!)  😉


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