|My amazing surround sound speaker hanging skills|
Nothing brought out her wrath more than the weekly mowing of the lawn. You know how most men take pride in their grass and general backyard areas? Yeah, that’s not really me. Nothing was more Bataan Death March to me than mowing the back forty. We had just enough yard to be annoying. I did have a nice Toro mower, but it was the recycling kind. You couldn’t wait too long to cut the grass or it would clog and stall. Forget about it if the grass was wet.
The wife, let’s call her Chrissy, had some weird utopian baseball-field level of what the average American lawn should look like. Whether parallel, crisscross or diagonals, the lines had to be fucking perfect. Sometimes I’d zone out and leave tiny strips of tall grass in between the lines. This was a national tragedy, possibly on the scale of presidential assassination. I would have to go back out and mow over the offending strips. This would then throw the whole line design out of whack. There will be blood.