Chuckle #416 | August 4th, 2010
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After months of assuring my husband that his lawn looked fine, (despite obvious evidence to the contrary) I finally had to agree that the grass was indeed, dead. I did my best to soft pedal the diagnosis out of respect for the delicate male ego, but he still cried like a baby.
A suburban man’s MOJO is so closely tied to the condition of his lawn that to even suggest that something isn’t right in the land of green can cause a disturbing slide into depression.
For months I’ve been trying to be the upbeat buffer between my hubby and his badly performing blades. But the lawn is definitely DOA. An epic fail. The problem is that this has never really happened before. My poor husband is in shock. He’s incredulous. He needs to know WHY.
So now, much to my chagrin, we need to talk about it. A lot. It’s not that I don’t enjoy a good lawn post mortem as much as the next wife, but there is a limit to how much quality “couples” time I want to spend discussing it. “Do you think it was mold?” he asks. “Could it be bugs?” he moans. “What about water? Too much, too little? Acid Rain? Environmental effects beyond our control?” “A jealous neighbor?”
He even tried to blame the dog until I gently pointed out even a 140lb Saint Bernard could not produce enough toxic urine to kill half our lawn. Certainly not an adorable 25lb Cockapoo. And I definitely didn’t spill weed and grass killer on it like I did last year. I’ve categorically denied any involvement.
Maybe our lawn is just bored. It needs a change of scenery, new seed, new mowing patterns, a little thatching… While the lawn is a man’s “turf” might I suggest that my husband shake things up a little? Perhaps he should talk to the lawn, praise it more…tell it how beautiful it is.
Maybe if he treats his lawn like a woman, she might respond. What’s he got to lose? He can always rotor-till and re-seed her in the fall. Nothing brings a man’s mojo back faster than the need to buy or rent a big new power tool.
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