And how was your Tuesday?

(Apologies in advance for the language. Avert the kiddies’ eyes.)

In a nutshell, here’s how my Tuesday went:

Doom: “Hey, baldy.”

(You’re kidding me, right? I’m the only person in this organization who’s treated you well the entire time I’ve been here. I’ve sat in your office and watched you literally cry over your delinquent son’s latest run-ins with the law – he’s 25, now, right? So isn’t it time that you got him out from under your roof? - and have just generally been a pillar of support for the last 20-odd months. I’ve watched you throw tantrum after tantrum over the most meaningless, minuscule issues, and I can’t imagine actually putting in double-digit years of service under your purview like some of these folks around here. I would rather eat rat poison while undergoing a root canal and a proctology exam simulataneously. Anyway, I was hoping that my shaving my head would make my hair loss a little more inconspicuous, but now I have seen the error of my ways, so I thank you for bringing that to my attention. Fucker.)

Me: (waves)

Doom: “I shouldn’t say that. I’m just kidding, you know.”

(No shit, you shouldn’t say that. You’re a sharp one – all of those years of harassment training are finally taking hold, huh? Hell, I’ve been sued for saying worse things, and I didn’t even say them. So, all is forgiven, you fat, ineffectual, impotent, mean-spirited fuck. Awwww, I shouldn’t say that. I’m just kidding, you know. People really hate you, you know. I’m not talking about “hate” like “Oh, I hate steamed vegetables” or “Oh, I hate the smell of wet cat food.” I’m talking about a deeper, more visceral hatred that rages through every artery, vein and corpuscle of one’s body, like, “Oh, I hate Gretchen Wilson.” Ahhh, there I go again, just kidding around. I shouldn’t say that. Buddies?)

Me: “Eh.”

***
Sticks and stones, of course. Treating people as you would like to be treated is a lesson lost on him, and I’ve learned that. I’ll just keep on taking the high road and only talk about him behind his back.

Anyway, after leaving work for the day, I decided to get some mowing in. This is the fourth summer for our rider, and it’s starting to show. I don’t think it was meant to mow as much acreage as it does. We live on a little over 3 acres, and it mows a large portion of that every week-to-10 days in the warm months. We’ve put some miles on it, to be succinct about it.

I was on the far end of our property, where our asshat neighbors who should be destroyed have put in a septic tank just on the other side of the line, and it’s made the very back of our property fairly soggy and mud-riddled. (I know, I know … that’s probably not mud.) I heard the blades of our mower start clanging and thumping something fierce, almost as I’d ran over a dead rabbit and it was bouncing around under there. It continued mowing, though, and as I am not mechanically inclined, I didn’t stop to check it out.

I’d committed myself to mowing the back half of the open field we have behind the house, which should take somewhere around an hour, tops. I continued mowing, and as the afternoon wore on, I thought, “My God, this is taking forever. I feel like I’ve been doing this for about two hours, and it shouldn’t take that long. And didn’t I just mow over this spot a minute ago? What gives?”

I finally finished that back half of the field, and started back toward the house, cutting a line that bisected the front half of the field; once I got to the carport, I looked behind me to what kind of line the mower was cutting, and I saw that our 42-inch deck was cutting only about 21 inches.

Crap. Well, that explained a lot.

I guess there’s a belt or something that has slipped or worn out (not like I’d know – just going on what my brother-in-law said might be the problem based on my wife’s discussion with him); it’s turning one blade, but not the other.

This latest development was actually portended by myriad problems with other gasoline-engined items that we own, mostly operated by me. Really, my rational mind knows that the problems with our old push mower (age has brought about an inefficiency in its fuel usage, probably related to having an old spark plug?), our new push mower (cheap-ass factory aluminum blade that gets bent by seemingly harmless things like clods of dirt and dog hair) and the vehicle I drive (fuel filter problem? Oxygen sensor? Hell, I don’t know) are all unrelated, but they’ve all come about at once. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that the internal-combustion-engine gods have decided to fuck with me, and I don’t appreciate it.

Today is a new day, though. As long as I keep getting up in the morning, there’s a clean slate to the day, with the opportunity for better (or, heaven forbid, worse) things to come about. Just to be on the safe side, though, if there’s a gasoline-powered item that you own that you’d prefer continue to operate, it’d probably be best to keep me and my horribly balding head away from it for the time being.