Puttering

So it’s another beautiful spring day and we’re spending as much time outside as possible to make up for the last six months of greyness.  Gibby, our six-year-old retriever mix is barking at birds, squirrels, helicopters, the neighbour’s dog, who we call “Slappy”, and my husband is puttering.  Merriam-Webster defines putter as “one who putts” and is probably referring to golf, though it sounds more like “putz” and that’s more descriptive of what’s currently going on in my backyard.  He’s moving stones.  Not large, heavy, backhoe-needing stones, no, these are small hand-sized, painted stones that our daughter created when she was 10.  Why?  So he doesn’t have to trim the grass growing near the air-conditioner.  He’s laying out weed-barrier fabric and pouring gravel over top like it’s a major landscaping project.  At least he’s saving our daughter’s creativity for posterity’s sake.

Out comes the leaf blower. One of hubby’s favourite tools.  He loves the power and noise it creates..cue the Tim Allen grunting.  Gibby hates it.  So he fires up the blower and blows all the leaves out from behind the air conditioner while Gibby jumps around barking to protect me from the leaves…they’re leaves Gibby, chill…and annoy any of our retired neighbours who are watching morning TV games shows.  Then he proceeds to blow the leaves across and out of our yard through the chain-link fence…yes, chain link…with holes in it….leaf-sized holes…all over it. I could understand the leaf-blowing concept if hubby picked up said blown leaves and put them in an organic recycling bag. However, he just blew them through a fence…those leaves are totally coming back later today.  And hubby will be back outside tomorrow blowing the same leaves through the same fence…should I say something?  Naw, it’ll keep him busy for a while and one of these days I’ll pick them up and bag them when he’s not here.  Then he’ll feel superior because he conquered the leaves.  The things we women do for our men.

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