No 'Mo That I Know

So, I am outside

--sorry, I just realized how much Rachael Ray looks EXACTLTY like a short version of my friend Hoodily Doodily--

Anyway...outside mowing my lawn. I hate mowing the lawn...every damn week. The HORRIBLE downside to house living vs. apartment living is that you have a lawn to take care of...and it not just mowing, ugh. So, I'm outside having fun with my Tecumseh Yard Machine (3.8 horsepower...impressive, yes?) and who should pull up across the street? Ron...of Ron's Lawns. (Spelling corrected from the actual "Rons Lawn's" that is painted on his rusty truck.) Ron does not like me. I don't pay him to mow my lawn like everyone else in the neighborhood does. I don't like paying someone $25 to walk over my lawn once a week...(twice when he can get away with it by sneaking through when I am not home.)

...Not to mention I feel sorry for the Hispanic guys that work for him. I know they can't speak English very well, and he tells them that they get half of the payment. Except he tells them that he only charges $10. So they make $5 and he takes home $20 for smoking a few cigarettes while they sweat their asses off. So, I usually end up paying the guys an extra $10-15 bucks to trim a perfectly manicured bush, or pull an imaginary weed.

Well, he pulls up across the street and glares at me as he pulls his fancy-schmancy lawn mowers out of the back of his truck and sets his guys to work. These guys are ready for work...they wear the right clothes and everything. They are wearing button up shirts and olive-green Dickies work pants with heavy boots or shoes...I, on the other hand, am wearing a DKNY t-shirt, pajama pants and GAP flip flops from last summer. I am trying not to pay attention to him across the street as his fleet of lawnmowers take over the neighborhood. And then...the mower dies. While I have the good ole-fashioned pull cord mower, Rons has the fancy ones with buttons, or keys, or magic wands that start them. So, while I am yanking the mower all over the yard trying to get it to rumble back to life, he stares at me from the tail-gate of his truck...laughing at me. I hate him...

I finally got the mower started right about the time that his guys came back to the truck to empty their mower bags. (I have a mulching mower, so I don't have to do that.) I finished the front lawn and headed to the back...hearing his laughing in my head...I hate him. I can't be the only person in the city that mows his own lawn, can I? I am the only 'mo I know that even knows how to start a mower...but someone mows their own lawn. Right?