I mowed my first lawn

Captain's Log, Supplemental

Captain Caffeine has been on crutches—he tore his Achilles tendon, it’s not bad, but he’s unable to put weight on his foot just yet.

The backyard had become the Amazon jungle. The Captain hates it when the grass—or, more accurately, the weeds become too long.

I admit, I was not a good wife. I did not want to have to clear away the chairs and buckets from the yard. I didn’t want to unlock that nasty garden tools shed that’s infested with spiders. I didn’t want to maneuver the lawn mower out.

The Captain tried valiantly to mow, since the lawn mower is electric and rather sturdy and he can lean on it. However, I finally decided he wasn’t going to give up or come to his senses, so I took over for him.

It’s a lot like vacuuming the carpet, except that instead of my seek-and-destroy mission to suck up every stray piece of dog hair, I had to flatten and raze the foxtails that had taken over the yard.

It wasn’t hard, but that mower is noisy. And it kicks up all kinds of little weed particles that got into my eyelashes and nose and mouth.

But I could understand the Captain’s feeling of satisfaction at seeing a nicely mown backyard. The dog enjoyed herself, running back and forth rather than weaving in and out of clumps of weeds.

Of course, now I’ve got a bit of hay fever and I’m a bit paranoid I won’t get all the grass out of my hair. But the backyard is mowed! That was my testosterone-induced good deed for the day.