My wonderful neighbor mows our yard on a routine basis. Our only responsibility is to weedeat around the bushes that surround 2 sides of our house. I've been eying the verdant grass and brambling weeds as they began to envelop the unruly hedges. From my description it is easily discerned that I do not bear a green thumb, fingers, toes or any other body part. I've been feeling rather industrious lately and have been attempting unfamiliar contrivances.
I have never operated a weedeater as my dad never allowed my sisters or me to assist in any of the yard work --- no matter how often we begged. In adulthood, I've always lived in apartments, or now my husband usually weedeats. Periodically. When he feels like it. In his defense, he now works 10 to 12 hour days, 5 days a week and usually vegetates on his days off from his place of employment.
The idea began to formulate early yesterday morning that I would hack, er, uhm, trim the overgrown grass and weeds. I knew I had seen a weedeater in the garage at some point in our residence. I've watched my husband enough times to determine it couldn't be difficult. I knew I would have to know how to start it, but from there it would be veritably effortless to wave the end around the verdured grass. Throughout the day I would scheme, then discard an idea. Ultimately I decided it would be best to ask my neighbor for his assistance.
Once I arrived home, I was ready to go. My neighbor wasn't home. Plan B then, google. When in doubt, google. I searched for instructions, to no avail. Just when I was about to give up, a friend of my husband's --- I'll call him Horace --- texted me asking to come by the house and pick up something left for him by my husband. Jack pot. Here was my chance. Our conversation by text went like this:
Me: When you come by to get it, can you show me how to use a weedeater?
Horace: Lmbo (censored for the youngins'), uh sure. Are you home?
Me: Yes. I'll be the one in the drive with the weedeater.
Horace: Ok. Be there in a bit.
Me: *Snoopy Dance*
As foretold, I was the one waiting in the drive with the weedeater. His first reaction, wow. This is an old one. My heart plummeted. Oh no. Does Horace not know how to start "old ones"? Horace's second question, "Where is the fuel?" Fuel? Isn't there some in there? Horace sighed, loudly --- not necessary. He checked the tank, "There may be enough." Whew, tragedy averted. I do not like to be disappointed. finally he asks, "are you planning on wearing shorts?" "Well, yeah. It's hot out." This time he shook his head and chuckled (probably more of a giggle, but giggle doesn't sound very manly). I promptly went back into the house and put on jeans, sneakers and safety glasses. He demonstrated how to "prime" it, then pull the... pully thing until it started. Once it began to run, I was off. I was so excited I didn't even tell Horace goodbye. I hope my enthusiasm was enough of a thanks.
Fortunately, I nearly completed the task about the same time the weedeater ran out of fuel. I was proud that I had all of my fingers and toes. And eye balls. I stood back to view the results. Spectacular. Spectacularly crooked and slipshod. Oh well, in a few days, no one will be able to tell.