Thou Shalt Not Drop The F-Bomb On Mother's Day

Back in 2007, my husband bought me a weedwacker for Mother's Day. I'll let that sink in for a moment. My Mother's Day gift was a weedwacker.
It's not that I complained that I was the one who did the yard work, and I'm not the type that demands a gift on any occasion. But something about opening that freakin’ weedwacker on Mother's Day just didn't sit well with me. Then it didn't help when he saw the look on my face and excitedly said, "This one doesn't plug in so it will make your life a lot easier!" 
What would actually make my life “a lot easier” is if you would do the yard work. But I didn't say that.
The problem with my "make-my-life-easier weedwacker" was that I didn't possess the skills of starting it by myself. Clearly this super-easy contraption was designed for a man, but little did they know it’d be gifted to a woman. Since it didn't plug in, it required a heavy tank of gas that rested under the handle and added about ten extra pounds. So no longer could I simply turn it on, but I had to find a way to balance the monstrosity on one leg, hold the handle steady and trigger down with one hand, and repeatedly yank a pull chord as hard as I could with the other hand. Gee, that did make my life easier. 
The bottom line was, I could not start that freakin’ weedwacker by myself, which required me to beckon my husband outside every time I needed it started. That process entailed waiting for him to wait for a commercial, put pants on over his boxers, and trudge outside as he loudly commented on how hot it was out there.To make matters worse, I also lacked the capacity to keep the stupid thing running after he started it. It didn't die right away, mind you. It waited until he was back on the couch in his boxers. Every.Time.

Fast forward to Mother's Day, 2009. I did the yard work after church. No complaints. I found it very relaxing to ride the lawnmower around our country lawn, in my bathing suit for tan line purposes, and I didn't even mind the trimming, as I chalked that up to productive cardio. But then it came time to drag out that horrible piece of machinery. My nemesis…the freakin’ weedwacker.

Notice the word weedwacker never stands without a freakin’ anymore.
I made the same mistake I always made. I attempted to start the damn thing by myself. Several times. Until I was hot, sweaty, and pissed, and then I screamed my husband's name in my very best possessed-by-the-devil voice, and waited for him to appear in the front yard. Let Round two of our ritual begin. He started the freakin’ weedwacker and right as he disappeared into the house, it died. And that's when I completely lost it. The meltdown to end all meltdowns. Right there, in the front yard, in my bathing suit, on Mother's Day 2009, I had a knock-down-drag-out-F bomb-dropping-testimony-losing tantrum and I literally beat the shit out of that freakin’ weedwacker. Afterward, I stood there out of breath and dripping with sweat, and that's when I heard it…the clippety clop of horses hoof beats on the road directly behind me. I slowly turned around to see a caravan of Amish families trekking by our house with their mouths gaping open and horrified looks on their faces, forever confirming their stance against technology. Glad I could help.

I don't do the yard work anymore. Not just because of that incident, although that certainly contributed. But somehow I lost my yard work mojo over the course of that year. I started running into things and over things. My husband had to change our mower blades four times, our son took up the sport of golf, I failed to notice all the little white balls scattered throughout the grass, and things got dangerous out there. My husband finally put his foot down and announced that he'll be doing the yard work from now on, and to this date, he's lived up to that promise, with exception of one thing. He has yet to use a freakin’ weedwacker.

I can’t imagine why. It always made my life so much easier.