This Post Brought to you by Lesbian Stereotypes

One of my former psychology professors (may he rest in peace) once said to our class that we should look for a partner whose skills and interests, in terms of housework, complemented our own rather than matched them.  For example, if you both love to cook but no one really likes to clean, you’re at a disadvantage compared to a couple where one spouse likes to cook and the other prefers clean-up.

I say this in light of the Day of Great Butchness Meg and I had yesterday.  I’ve always thought that we complemented each other pretty well.  I like to cook, do laundry, mop, and sweep.  She doesn’t mind doing after-dinner clean-up, enjoys dealing with the dishwasher, and loves all things yard-related…or so we thought.

One of the provisions of our lease is that we maintain the yard—it’s pretty common for a rental house.  And the landlord was nice enough to leave us his old mower in the garage.  Yesterday he came by to fix the railing, and we asked him to show us how to work the mower—yeah, we could have figured it out, but he was there and it was just easier to ask him.  So he demonstrated and Meg decided to mow the front lawn.  I had some misgivings, but she said she could get the front lawn done easily enough.

One quarter of the front lawn later, we found out that Meg is apparently very allergic to grass.  I thought I was going to have to take her to the ER—her asthma was really bad, and her inhaler is pretty much useless, seeing as it is both expired AND empty.  A couple of Benadryl (which we keep on hand for the dog) calmed everything down, but it was clear that there was to be no more lawn mowing in Meg’s future.

However, we couldn’t leave the lawn ¼ mowed, even for a couple days.  So I said I would do it.  Stop laughing.  I know I’m a big damn creampuff when it comes to this stuff, but to my credit I did change out of my nice jeans and shirt into less-nice jeans and a t-shirt.  I even dug out my one and only pair of sneakers.  Then I went to wrangle the beast.

The mower is a push mower, but it’s not one of those fancy new-fangled self-propelled mowers.  No siree, the only thing propelling this 200+lb hulk of metal and gasoline is YOU.  Or, in this case, ME.  Which is way worse than if it were you, trust me.  Also keep in mind that our front yard has something that is a rarity in the Midwest: an incline.  It actually even approaches “hill” territory, although after living in Staunton, my definition of a “hill” is much stricter than Meg’s.  Also making an appearance in the yard: a giant maple tree, a large pile of leaves from last fall (yes, we are THOSE neighbors), lots of ruts, some soft spots, dirt, rocks, and lastly, a few strands of grass.  Oh, and some dandelions.

Oh, and also?  I have never mowed grass in my whole life.

Yeah, so, I’m sure you know how this turned out, right?  The grass did get mowed, but if it had taken any longer, I’m sure the neighbors would have set up chairs and brought popcorn.  Or perhaps called an ambulance.

This whole episode has done one thing for us, though: we have shed the last vestiges of our city identities, and have become fully Suburban People.  No, not because we do our own yard work—because we celebrated having mowed our very own front yard by hiring a lawn service.  After all, there’s still the back yard to mow…