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Weed Whackery — Accidental Akronite

Right now my dad is up in heaven driving around on his riding mower wearing his white v-neck t-shirt and red bandana saying “I told you so.” Why? Because I finally bought a cordless weed whacker and finally used it today in the yard to whack away weeds, acorns, twigs, random piles of dog poop. You name it, I gave it a good whack. And then I whacked it again because I could. 

It’s not just any old weed whacker I bought, it’s the mack daddy of whackery. It’s the Several years ago, I bought a weed whacker – the kind with a cord and the whacking string that you had to feed through a spool. My dad was at our house doing one of the endless fixer-upper tasks that we always volunteered him for because, let’s face it, I am not the fixer-upper type. I am the call-for-help type. Dad might have been installing one of the ceiling fans or fixing a light in the bathroom or generally making sure the house wasn’t going to cave in on us. He saw my sorry excuse for a weed whacker and said in his dad-of-few-words way, “You’re going to get tired of dragging that extension cord around the yard.” Read: your whacker sucks. I’m nothing if not stubborn so I blew it off. My whackjob was just fine, thanks. Three years later, I’ve been known to throw the old whacker across the yard in a feet-stamping tantrum that would beat Veruca Salt on a very bad day at Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Here’s the most common scenario: La la la, it’s sunny and time to do yardwork hurray! Mow grassy patch in back, pull weeds near the fence, obsess over poison ivy growing in the corner (I’m allergic) which seems to be watching me, pull out weed whacker, pray to every martyred saint that there’s enough string left in the spool and that said string spools out properly, fight with the tangled extension cord that I didn’t roll up in nice, neat loops the last time I used it and curse self for not having enough patience for such things as properly stowing away cords, curse inventors of extension cords for not making it easier for me to wrap them up correctly (yes, I’m passing that buck), plug in whacker and …. zzzt. The string has disappeared into the grass-and-gunk encrusted spool. Turn off whacker, turn over whacker, curse, curse, curse, fight with string, tell the dogs not to be scared of my cursing, make sure poison ivy isn’t following me around the yard because it’s sneaky that way, remind myself that I should have taken dad’s advice because when it comes to tools and all things that require manual labor father really did know best, curse all the martyred saints and remind them that they might have had their eyes burned out and their fingers pulled off but they never had to deal with a weed whacker like this. There now, all better. Whack, whack…grrrrrrrrr. Repeat all steps above … a little bit louder, a little bit worse (those of you who were Girl Scouts and know the song will understand that reference). Now, it’s like the weeds are greeting me with open fronds and petals saying “oh please Mr. NST 2018, please whack me down to the roots! Don’t hold back!” I whacked the yard for about an hour and never once did I curse or throw anything. In fact, I was humming which the neighbors probably find preferable to the cursing. Instead of using the lawn mower on our little grassy patch that pretends to be a backyard, I whacked it. Alice and Macy didn’t run away like they usually do when I’m throwing large objects attached to extension cords across the yard. I never had to re-spool, because this baby is automatic feeding, doncha know.  I never had to enter into battle with the extension cord or free it from whatever it used to inevitably get stuck on or snagged around or jammed under. I just happily went about my whacking.

Source: Weed Whackery — Accidental Akronite