I’m admittedly super impulsive when it comes to just about everything and I’m not one to complain so if I see something that needs to get done, I just…do it. Usually dive in without bothering with the details and as you can guess, that leads to spectacular really great surprises, and some epic fails….for instance, well, the last time I took the initiative to add gas to our mower just before vacation, apparently I added diesel and hubby and one of our sons had to spend a day draining it and cleaning it…It is what it is. This defining part of my nature has led my brother in law to say of me that he thinks I’m past needing a staff. He thinks I need minions.
So this brings me to what happened today. First: I have a question for you (and this is TOTALLY hypothetical) how mad would you be at your partner if she/he (and again, completely a “what if” situation m…) while she/he was trying to be so very helpful mind you, how upset with your partner would you be if she/he ACCIDENTALLY cut through the power cord while she/he was cutting the hedges?
Because I “accidentally-hypothetically-what- if” did that and Found myself standing alone in the rubble and smoldering remains, knowing my husbands return was inevitable but at least an hour or two off. What to do…what to do….I decided on a tried and true method that had never failed me in the past: Give him a couple beers and present the information topless. It’s the only play I have at this moment….The thing is, if I hadn’t (hypothetically of course) already cut/mowed/snowblower mauled so MANY cords…I think my play might work. It’s dicey with my track record though….I’m not completely confident, I think I’ve had to whip these out too many times….but really, I was tired, covered in clippings, in need of a shower, and out of workable options and solid problem solving skills. I decided to text him parts of the story, interspersed with strategic pictures, and hide. When he tracked me down, he was too busy laughing at me to care….he headed out to survey and fix the damage. I’ll say this: the “girls” may be 45, dangle dangerously close to my waistband, are lopsided and never looking anyone straight in the eye, but they haven’t failed me yet.