I mentioned last week that a small crew of shirtless guys mows our lawn every week during the summer. It this an indulgence? Hell, yes. Yes it is, one that is very close to the bottom of the list of things to cut out of our budget. Because it takes them less than a half hour, whereas it would take one of us close to three hours. That’s three hours better spent yelling at our maids.
Also, Jon is very allergic to grass, so “one of us” would be me, and that nap is not going to take itself, now is it?
Most of these guys are working to help pay for college, so we supplement our justification for the expense with that in mind. Also, Tyrant is always feeling generous when they are around, so I know he won’t be jumping out of dark corners or trying to feed me my dead pet fish.
Did I tell you about the time I was at the gym when he sent me a picture of a half-eaten passport? It was the morning before I was supposed to leave for Bangladesh. The text he sent with it was, “I told you not to leave this where Coco could reach it.” Needless to say, after I recovered from that coronary I did not pay him for the time he used to google “dog eats passport image.”
Unfortunately, these guys really need to work on their college because they never remember to close the two gates that seal off the backyard. I seem to remember that one of the main reasons we bought this house was its closed off backyard. We would be able to let the dogs out and not worry about them wandering off and being eaten by local mythical bobcats or run over by teenage Mormons drunk on orange Fanta. Jon wouldn’t be able to go, “What? Coco? I
boiled her guess she escaped the backyard!”
You see where this is going, right? Right. Once a week both dogs go missing. ONCE. A. WEEK. Because we forget that we have to check the gates after the mowers leave. We shouldn’t have to check the gates because the mowers are supposed to close them before they go AND HERE’S WHERE MY RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION BLOWS THROUGH MY EARS WITH THE FURY OF A TRAIN WHISTLE.
(an actual steam train whistle, not the friendly talking train with the British accent)
I would write this off as something I should just get over (check the damn gates, Heather) but in the chaos of our routines those gates sometimes get forgotten, and this puts the dogs in serious danger. You can’t live in Salt Lake without being close to some road that sees heavy traffic. Thus, the smoke pouring out of my ears every time we go outside, call for the dogs and realize the gates are open, GAWD DAMMIT, IMMA MOW THIS YARD MAH-SELF.
But then Jon would have to yell at the maids, and he’s allergic to dust.