I’m in the middle of a feud with my string trimmer. We’re still on speaking terms, but the relationship is strained.
I should have known better than to think we’d be friends. Machines around our house tend to have strong opinions about when they’ll work and when they won’t. (My wife Stacey thinks they must have unionized.) But the lawn needed edging, so I figured the trimmer and I might as well get acquainted.
Maybe it was just more used to working with Stacey. She’s the one who used to use the thing all the time, until childrearing and pregnancy interfered. She had always made it look easy, so I figured I’d have no problem getting the trimmer to etch nice deep furrows outlining our gardens and sidewalks.
The trimmer had other plans, which apparently included chewing up its string and flinging high-speed debris in my face. (Wear those eye-protectors, kids.)
By the time I gave up, I was using vocabulary that was rather unbecoming of a new father, the trimmer was gobbling string by the spoolfull, and the lawn looked like it had been attacked by rampaging mutant hedgehogs.
So we reached an agreement: I’d give up on the edging, and the trimmer would consent to cutting down maybe four or five weeds per month.
Which, frankly, is fine by me. I’m not much interested in kissing and making up.