The Prude can’t continue the Lecture lecture at this time. The Prude’s experience last evening with a Modern Invention engendered so much disapproval that The Prude has no choice but to pursue it- preferably off the end of the earth.
The Prude highly HIGHLY disapproves of the invention known as a Riding Lawnmower.
The Prude’s 3 sons, while living under The Prude’s roof, were the mowing masters. Those very sons are showing a propensity to marriage and college, which sets The Prude firmly on the seat of the Modern Invention with all its knobs, noise, and noxious fumes.
We started slowly. The speed was set by The Prude at TURTLE. The Prude approves of the TURTLE setting. As I gained confidence I edged it up to RABBIT. I began almost enjoying the ride. The Prude felt a bit yee-hawish, like Dale Evans on Buttercup, or, for those of you under the age of ancient, Miley Cyrus riding one of those poles city-bred girls tend to confuse with horses.
I had not learned to turn off the mower (WHOA! proved ineffective) and there were small branches which I had to avoid since I couldn’t leap off, trot alongside while disposing of the limb, and then vault back on the continuously moving mower. So I wisely steered around the limbs. I also had to avoid small butterflies and froggy creatures with no sense of self-preservation.
The Prude swung merrily around trees, volleyball nets and septic system markers. When The Prude’s Husband, Mr. ‘I’m Not a Prude, I Just Married One’ came home (while The Prude was still dashing about the yard at almost RABBIT speed) he loped toward her, swinging his arms wildly. The Prude assumed he was giving her a BRAVO, HIGH FIVE, and YIPPEE SKIPPEE sign all at the same time. In a complicated series of turns, shifts, and twists he shut off the riding beast and pointed at the yard. The Prude turned, ready to gaze at the work of art. She gasped genteelly.
Instead of lovely, long straight rows of neatly mown grass, the .538 acres looked like nothing so much as The Prude’s psychedelic paisley jumpsuit from the 1970’s. The Prude was banished to the PUSH MOWER and she will express her great displeasure with THAT hulking pile of metal tomorrow.
8 comments:
O how rude when a prude's children (who she carried for 9 months, and for whom she nearly died in labor) turn against her and grow up and away.
Keep posting, Prudie, dear. It gives my neck exercise as I nod wisely and knowingly while reading along.
Being down to one son now, I'm feeling that same thing. There used to be soooo many boys around here for soooo long who took care of soooo many things for their dear mother. I'm afraid my lone son will not have time to do school once fall rolls around as I'll have soooo many tasks for him to do, poor thing, rather than the alternative of me or the girls attempting them....
Blessings to you, dear Anita!
Tammy ~@~
Attn: Mr. Husband-of-The Prude -
Thou shalt not ban your Prudish Wife w/out so much as an introductory first lesson in the fine art of lawn sculpting with a Riding Lawnmower. There is such a thing as a learning curve. She knows all about such curves having educated your three sons in other fine arts for, lo, these many recent years!
Thanks to you, I will be sure to appreciate all of my boys (and the many years they will still be at home) that much more dearly.
LOL! Does the lawn still look like your paisley jumpsuit from the 70's? Now I want to come over and see it.... Heeheehee.
And I thought your Miley Cyrus comment was hilarious. You are a really great, funny writer!
Dear Prude, The husband of prude has no artistic ability to appreciate the art of lawn sculpting which you have obviously mastered in one sitting.
Joanie
You inspired me straight to my telephone to call a neighborhood boy and ask him to come over and mow our lawn. Mark's out of town this week.
Thanks for the push!
Lori
I think you may have stumbled upon that part-time job you're looking for. Hire yourself out as an abstract lawn artist.
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