Letters of Mass Construction

My Wife Needs a Warning Label

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I like to eat. I particularly like to eat fresh vegetables. We have a bunch of space in our back yard to grow stuff but the soil is worthless hard pan. Any plant that could actually get its roots into the ground would have to be some mutant man-eating plant like the one from Little Shop of Horrors. Although truthfully, I think even Seymour would find our soil difficult.

A few weeks ago I offhandedly suggested we put in a few planter boxes and grow some good eats. I didn’t really think anything of it at the time. Just one of those off the top of the head comments. The only thing is the comment bored into Sheri’s brain like a Ceti eel (yeah I went all Wrath of Kahn on you). The next thing I knew a full blown backyard project was under way.

I didn’t have to do too much on stage one. Helped my brother assemble the boxes. Lift the boxes into the backyard. Water proof the boxes and done. A little manual labor but not too bad. The boxes were heavy but it was only a few minutes of heavy lifting. I smiled and told them, “Hey, you let me know if you need anything else.”

My idea of working hard is entirely based on how many words I can produce in a day. Throw in a little exercise and you have the extent of how much I like stressing out my body. This weekend was our anniversary and I geeked out and bought an iPad to celebrate. My wife on the other hand simply wanted dinner and a little more help on the garden.

I readily agreed, it doesn’t pay off to say no to the woman who you are actively engaging in a long term battle to convince her she would make the perfect sugar mama. Plus, all she wanted was for me to bring the planting soil, being delivered early Saturday morning, into the back yard. It was a bit of dirt. I could handle moving a bit of dirt.

I should have known I was being suckered when I was required to get up and work at an hour entirely unacceptable to my body (on a weekend no less). The dirt came bright and early. The hill didn’t look too bad. It did however smell like something had died in it. Apparently planting soil is code for we mixed shit in there and now your nostrils will never be the same. I considered passing out right there but I didn’t think it was going to get me out of shoveling “planting soil”.

I began my steady assault on the hill. My brother helped with the shoveling and transporting at first but then it got hot. Sheri overheated and retreated to the living-room. My brother took over the leveling of the garden beds. The next thing I knew I was on moving crap on my own. I wish I could describe fully how much I hate hard labor (my description involves a lot of swear words. Too many to list here). I am simply not built for it.

After what seemed like an eternity of shoveling and melting in the sun. I took my blistered hands into the house and marveled at my wife’s amazing Jedi mind trick. Somehow she managed to get me to volunteer to do the work. Then she managed to retreat to the house while I exposed my delicate skin to the harsh sun. She did all of this without so much as having to ask twice. My wife is crafty. There should be a warning label on her, “Say no and run away!”

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One Response to “My Wife Needs a Warning Label”

  1. IZTAES says:

    >Ah, women are crafty indeed. Please keep in mind this quote from "Big Fat Greek Wedding":"The man is the head [of the house], but the woman is the neck. And she can turn the head any way she wants."Women know where and how to wield their power to the greatest effect. 😉

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