Lawns of Consciousness

I just finished mowing.  Literally, I am still soaked with a combination of sweat and cold hose-water.

I just love it.  Five years ago, my very first column was an ode to the joys of cutting the grass.  It is enforced aloneness with myself.  And am I the only one that has an almost constant commentary running through their head?

Maybe it’s because I’m a writer, but I think in complete sentences.  When I cook, I have a cooking show up there.  Put me in front of a camera and I’d forget how to make a PBJ.  But in my kitchen, all by myself, I am as funny and knowledgeable as Alton Brown, as experienced and charming as Julia Child, and as bewitching and effortlessly chic as Nigella Lawson.

When I mow, I have odd little daydreams, think “great” thoughts, and write columns in my head.

In a meta twist that M. Night. Shyamalan didn’t see coming, the very column you are reading right now was conceived today while I was walking behind my trusty Honda lawnmower.

For years, I’ve been mowing the same path, listening to the same music on the same MP3 player.  I’d know by where I was in the process when a certain song came on, whether I was slower than normal or rushing.

As most folks, I’m stuck at home in this weird limbo where I don’t know what day of the week it is, and so bored that I spend way too much time deciding on my outfit to run to the drive-thru at CVS.

But I still have some power; to mix things up, take a hard left, make it dangerous.

Your intrepid author, in all my 1980’s glory.

Today I not only changed the route I mowed, I changed the music.  Instead of the same club mix of swing music, I listened to a big, eclectic collection of 80s music.  Tunes from bands like Tears for Fears, Prince, and Squeeze.

Most people understand a second language much better than they speak it.  I speak Spanish pretty well, I’d say I’m 35-40% fluent.

My comprehension, though, is really lacking.  I tell people to think of me as a dim-witted child; please use very simple words and speak slowly.

It’s probably related brain-wise that I’m also really bad at understanding the words in music.  I am the girl that sings, “Oh is it the tan you wear?” instead of what U2 actually sings, “Or is it the time of year?”.

But occasionally after hearing a song more than 10,000 or so times, I begin to understand the words.  Not long ago I realized Rick James was talking about a groupie and S-E-X!

I’d like to know, what is up with ants this year?  If you had an apartment downtown the square footage of these anthills, there’d be a waitlist and a boat-load of amenities.

I try to remember to spray beforehand.  But when it’s dusty when I mow, it’s like I’m inhaling an ant graveyard.

And I can’t help but think about a Night Gallery episode where this jerky writer washed a spider down the sink and it came back the size of a pony.  I’m kind of nervous that I’ll wake up one night and a six-foot-tall ant will be standing over me holding a cast iron frying pan in one hand and a jelly doughnut in the other.

Usually, when I come in after mowing, I drink an icy cold bottle of Fanta root beer.  It’s such a treat, so cold, spicy, and aromatic it almost takes my breath away.

But today’s water.  I’m making potato salad for dinner.  So those root beer calories are already spent.

Thanks for your time.

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