Chapter Thirty Eight; The Great Grass Mystery and other Manly Secrets Revealed

Anyone out there looking for a husband?

If so, I have a great candidate:

Me.

Alright. Not really. Like I want to get married again? No way.

Okay, okay. Seriously. I do have a point. And an announcement:

I have decoded the mysteries of the male universe. And guess what:

NOT THAT DIFFICULT!

Closely guarded secrets of the husbandly nature are no longer locked in a vault of marital silence. Not that I really wanted to ever know where the grass clippings went, how to fix the garbage disposal, or get the central air fired up on the first hot day of the year, but hey, I am living in a testosterone free land here so I kinda had no choice.

I like to call my first adventure of my spouseless existence:

“The Discovery of the Great Grass Graveyard” (not that kind of grass . . .)

Here’s the deal:

My ex always mowed the lawn. And when he did, the leftovers mysteriously disappeared. Like magic. And I never asked where they went. It was like an unwritten rule. An unspoken understanding. Because all I knew is the husband had something to do with their disappearance. (And honestly? Like I gave a crap? I was just happy they were gone.)

Fast forward to now. Spring is here. I am divorced. I need to mow.

Check.

Crap.

Um. Help?

One quick clueless woman on the street survey of my neighbors later I learn there is this amazing place just a few blocks away devoted entirely to yard waste disposal. Really? What? You mean he didn’t zap them with his super secret man gun?

Wow. I am so shocked.

So, on my way to work on Monday I deposit the remnants of my weekend’s hard work in my trunk. And drive my little sports car over to the hush-hush dumping ground. I find it right away. And it is quickly apparent that I am obviously in a man’s world.

Because everything is clearly labeled in large black block letters.

I also know I’ve penetrated a sacred manly ritual because I am the only woman at this place.

I march my designer jeans up the ramp and promptly deposit the clippings under a large sign that basically grunts at me, “CLIPPINGS HERE” while all the men in the vicinity simply stop. And stare. And I don’t think they were checking out my ass. I think they were shocked to see that the gig was up. Estrogen was in the building. And she had discovered their covert operation.

I felt like maybe I should make some kind of proclamation? One that would accompany my sticking a flag in the receptacle claiming this new world for the Queen of Divorce Land and her loyal mowing female subjects?

Nah. I’ll just let the natives sweat it out. Let them lay awake at night wondering if this means they can expect more female colonists to invade their territory in the years to come and leave it that.

The rest of my adventures in man land include: finding an alternate use for a broom handle to unstick a stuck garbage disposal (worked like a charm). I also discovered that this box full of switches in my basement has a use. Its full of little deally bobs called “breaker switches.” And they are important little buggers. One in particular needed to be flipped in order to start my central air unit now that summer is here.

Phew!

I’m exhausted.

Someone wipe the sweat off my brow. This being a man is really intense.

Ah. Hem. Yes. Insert sarcasm.

Because like I am not noticing the blatant fact that these tasks are NOTHING compared to bearing children, cooking four course meals, coordinating the schedules of the entire family, paying the bills (creatively, during the lean years) and sewing every damn curtain in this four story well decorated joint?

What a crock!

And so, my female friends. If you do happen to be married, I have news. There is no man gun and their super secret world is well labeled and not that hard to locate. (It’s by the water treatment plant if any woman out there really wants to know.) And as for any garbage disposal or heating/cooling unit issues you may have, give me a call. I’ll come over, teach you to do amazing things with a broom handle and try not to break my pinky finger while flipping a little switch in your basement.

(Reread that last sentence . . . HAHAHAHAHA! Man, does that read like a metaphor that could be taken totally out of context or what? I am best at sexual innuendos when they just accidentally fall out of my face. This weekend I had guy over and I told him, "You have GOT to put your face in my bush."................I meant my lilac bush. Its in full bloom. He momentarily looked really exicted until I pointed at the flowers. ;-) And don't ask why I had a guy over. I'll blog about that one later....)

Maybe . . .

Back to my manly abilities:

Please note, if you do need my assistance in the honey do list department, I will need to lie down afterward on your couch for a few hours. And if its not any trouble, I’d like to watch South Park and drink a beer during my recovery from all that . . . cough . . . “work.”

But unfortunately, even though I really do have this man thing down, don’t even think about proposing.

Because right now the only woman I am planning to take care of . . .

Is me.