Sarah Gone Wild

I may not have a plethora of “manly” skills, but as Mr. T is extremely skilled in home improvement and car maintenance, I have not had to know many such skills. (He also took home ec and I never did, so here’s betting he can sew far better than me as well.) By the same token, I am no domestic goddess, either. I despise cleaning, doing laundry, ironing, cooking and most other related tasks. Basically, I’m a lazy, worthless slob who likes to bake but not clean up afterwards. And I am skilled with dumping stuff in the crock pot and serving it on paper plates when I get home.

But I digress (shocker, I know). I decided that it wasn’t fair that Mr. T be the only one to do yardwork, and as I have never mowed the lawn before in my life, I made him show me how this weekend. It’s not fair that his skinny ass gets to burn those calories, anyway. Bring it on.

We had let the lawn get a bit long, so Mr. T advised that I cut it high the first time and one of us would have to go over it again in a day or so to cut it short. As I am not to be trusted with gas-powered items featuring sharp blades, Mr. T kindly cut the awkward hill on the side of our driveway and then let me loose. He weeded the front landscaping as I mowed on Sunday, giving a few hints now and then, but mostly letting me learn how to handle the mower on my own. Not difficult, but it does take some getting used to in terms of maneuvering.

Last night, I decided I’d go ahead and handle the second run to get the grass nice and short. Mr. T helped me lower the mower and I was off. Okay, people, mowing the lawn IS NOT HARD. I might look retarded as I am still figuring out the best way to turn in small spaces, but much to my boobs’ dismay, I fully intend to mow the lawn on a regular basis. I’m empowering my inner goddess or some crazy vagina-loving-babble like that. So when I am in my front yard, mowing the lawn, I do not need you, Mr.Ikeepmybitchesinthekitchen, to drive by, honk and yell at me about being a woman cutting the grass. Or maybe you asked if I wanted to come mow YOUR lawn - I couldn’t quite hear you over the roar of my newly discovered manbilities.

I’m not so much a feminist. I enjoy having my chair pulled out for me and doors opened for me (but only by Mr. T). I think it’s adorable when Mr. T orders for me at restaurants (it doesn’t happen often, so it’s endearing). I love that he wants to take care of me, but I equally love that he’s willing to teach me how to do anything I want to learn. I can almost change the oil in my car by myself (sometimes the filter is on too tight for me to remove on my own). I am the techie at our house. I now mow the lawn. I take out the trash and carry heavy things. I’m fully capable of barbecuing dinner, but I let him do it because he loves it.

When I go for a run or walk, I don’t want to be honked at. When I’m watering my flowers, I don’t want to be honked at. When I walk by you at the mall, I don’t want to be informed of how “thick” I am (which is apparently a compliment) or asked for my number. When I am leaving Target, I don’t want you to tell me to smile and then chase me out of the parking lot in a desperate attempt to get a piece of this unavailable ass.

Guys, I know it’s not nice to stereotype, but I’m sick to death of this shit. Unless I’m dressed like the gym stripper, you have no right to assume that I want any part of what you have to offer (but I think she’s available, so have at it). I declare war. When I see you running down the street, trying to get a decent workout in for the day, I will honk and yell at you. When I drive by a construction site, I will do the cat calling, thank you very much. Unfortunately, I think you’ll be encouraged by this, so perhaps it’s not the best plan. Perhaps you enjoy feeling like a piece of meat on display for public enjoyment, but I do not. So perhaps I will simply continue to flip you the bird until you get the point and go fuck yourselves.

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