A Failed Liberated Woman, or Losing the Battle in the Lawnmower Wars

I love gardening. I love everything about it. I love tilling soil, I love planting, mulching,weeding even. One of the things I like best about our new house is that we finally have a front and backyard we where can cultivate some of the skills we learned last year about having a garden. And we also finally have a lawn. That needs to be mowed. Often. After all, like DH said, living in the South is a bit like living in the Degobah system with Yoda. Times two. I actually like mowing the lawn. The first time I did it, I was a wussy girlie man and needed DH to start the dang thing for me. When I asked in frustration why it wouldn't start, he said, "It senses weakness". He gave it one swift pull--vroom, it revs to life, and he impishly grinned at me, leaving me to the task. Annoying, I know. I love him anyway. Last week, I was determined to mow down our rapidly growing mini-forest myself. And you know what? I DID! I got the thing pumped full of gas, I gave it some swift manly, calmly assertive pulls, and whaddya know, it came to life, and I mowed the whole lawn. I felt strong. I felt powerful. After all, mowing the lawn was typically a boy's job, and here I was, in my swimsuit and shorts (of course we had just come from the pool, our second home these days), my straw hat and sunscreen, sweatin' to the oldies, as it were, mowin' my lawn in the Degobah system. A liberated, strong, self-sufficient, self-reliant, lawn-mower-butt kickin' gal. And, if I do say so myself, I did a fabulous job. Well, it's been a week or so since my power trip, and it definitely needs to be done again. And heady with my success of last week, I decided to tackle the grass again. The lawnmower will not be moved. I can't get the stupid thing to work. At all. I've primed it, I've pulled and pulled until I swear I pulled a muscle in my neck and in my back, and I called DH swearing at him about the *&$#@ lawnmower. He calmly asked, with a laugh in his voice, what I thought he could do from his office, since he hasn't developed that certain ability to apparate from the office to home to fix all of my daily problems, and he does actually have to work for a living. Slacker, I know. I love him anyway. But clearly he doesn't understand the war that is underway, this battle of wills between me and the lawnmower. That the inanimate object is not just a piece of machinary that is simply malfunctioning, or a piece of junk that I simply do not know how to work properly. It is a sinister minion of Satan who is laughing at my feverish attempts to own it, to have a girl operate it. He is telling me, "You may have won last time, missy, but don't bet your little spandex clad bootie you can claim full victory. Victory, lassy, will be mine!" And I don't know why the lawnmower is talking to me in a vaguely Scottish accent, but, there it is. I don't want to admit defeat this time, but I may have to. But watch out, lawnmower. This day may be yours, but this isn't over. Not by a long shot. Summer's not even half over. We've got a looong way to go. BWHHAHAHAHAH.... (The guy in picture isn't me, by the way, nor is it DH. It's just some random guy who appeared in this short film which captures the event perfectly. Enjoy!)