Sorry for the late blog, but it was one of those days where your plans are different from those around you. (Ah, it’s almost worth getting a real job to be able to plead work as an excuse.)
My father needed my help in the garden. I don’t mind that sort of work, it isn’t my favorite, but I can live with it. We’re running a little late on planting it, so he felt (and therefore I felt) an ardent desire to get stuff in the ground.
In order to get stuff in the ground, you must first remove the interlopers that have claimed it as their own. Those weeds, oh, those weeds. It was utterly horrendous. Do you remember that episode of Three’s Company where Jack, Chrissy, and Janet clean out Mr. Roper’s garden, to I think, earn a little off their rent. The one where Chrissy picks the marijuana and puts it in the bouquet because she didn’t realize what it was. It was like that, only without the drugs. Let’s say this then, some of those weeds were taller than me, and I’m about six feet. I was looking for Tarzan out there.
Well, as you can imagine it was a lot of work. I thankfully was raking up the weeds that were already cut, and he was the one who was plowing through the hayfield-like grasses and ground ivy. There was a period where he tried to make me run the weed-eater, but that, uh, didn’t work out so well.
You see, I have this unholy, downright unnatural, fear of the weed-eater, It’s right up there with spiders. And Sarah Palin. I loathe that thing, and if he had any sense of how very terrified I am of that death trap, he wouldn’t make me go within twenty feet with it. I don’t like loud things, and I don’t like things that make grass fly around, and I really don’t like things that can remove limbs. (He was using the brush blade, I could cut down a tree with that thing.) Oh my, I hate that thing. I’m always afraid that it’s going to kill me. I know on a rational level, that all it can do is maim me badly. I give it a little kick whenever I walk past it in the garage.
This leads me to the long and arduous topic of my father and I’s different personalities. I’m an impractical dreamy soul. He’s a pragmatic, mechanical minded person. Both of these things have their place, and generally speaking he stays in his world, and I stay in mine. We’re both good sports, and I’ll help him work on a furnace if he realizes that I’m an idiot about, well, lots of stuff. (You don’t want me to help you move, unless you need a creative way to get that couch through a doorway. I am an idiot, like no other when it comes to moving furniture.) But it’s times like these when he doesn’t see why I should have any reason to be afraid of the weed-eater, or spiders, Sarah Palin, or driving, (though that last one I refuse to not do it because of fear, I know I will have to do it someday, and that I need to learn. And also, if my mother can do it, so can I.) Anyway, he just doesn’t get that part of me. And I don’t get that part of him that doesn’t know how to pronounce designee.
After far too many minutes, and odd jerks farther away from the blade, he finally came over and said, “You don’t even look comfortable with this, give it to me.”
I said, “That’s because I’m not comfortable with it,” as un-sarcastic as I could.
Then I raked till my fore-arms started shaking, which was about two hours. (I may need to work out more.) Took a quick shower, stuck something in my mouth. (Food, get it out the gutter.) And then raced to downtown, dropped off a letter, and then raced into a tutoring session that I was exactly one minute early for.
I swear, on the quiet days, I wish for action, on the quick days, I wish for quiet. It’s that whole happy medium thing that I think every one is looking for. So, has anyone been able to find it.
And thanks for all your help on the issue of the variations of Knitting Workshop patterns. I’ve adopted the “Only if I feel like it” approach.