Mowin’ Grass

As sad as it sounds, I love to mow grass. Don’t judge me.  I don’t judge those of you who get your nether-regions waxed.

You know who you are.

Sickos.

Sorry, that was a little judgmental, wasn’t it?

Focus!

So, the grass in my backyard was about hip-deep. Poor Laila-dog was practically getting lost in the jungle just going out there to conduct her business transactions.

She’ll be so happy, I told myself.  With the grass down below her eye line, she’ll frolic and play.  She might even party like it’s 1999.

With that in mind, I was motivated.  I picked up the poop (the prerequisite to cutting our grass and my least favorite chore…I can handle the sun-hardened ones, but those other, fresher samples make me gag…like brussels sprouts), and mowed the grass, all the time telling myself what a good thing I was doing.

I got my heart rate up and even broke a good sweat. And I only ate one sprinkler head with the mower blade.  I couldn’t get the Weed Eater to crank, but I was okay with that.

When I got done, I stood back, like any proud Hen, and clucked to my Diva chick about how nice the yard looked and how much Laila-dog was going to enjoy rolling on the freshly cut, carpet-like lawn. We both breathed deeply of the strong cut-grass scent.

Excitedly, I went to the garage where I had temporarily stashed LD and released her to the backyard.

This is what she immediately did.

Look at her. Layin’ there like a big, ole killin’ hog.

She didn’t even  make it to my sweet smelling grass before she passed out.

Nice.

Oddly, it makes me feel a little like taking a nap myself.

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