OK, fine, you can call me a city girl. Go ahead and make a joke about me being from Jersey and being pampered like those bad-accent new "Real Housewives..." (Don't even GET ME STARTED about those ladies though and how they do NOT represent the Garden State.)
Here it is.
I've never, EVER used a weed-whacker or a lawn mower. EVER. In my entire life.
I am now the (aching) Whackin' Goddess of Chestnut Street. At least that's what the neighbors call me. (When they aren't making fun of my TERRIBLE clothes that: a) are not appealing to all the ladies and gentlemen in their 60s and 70s; b) ill-fitting; c) A combination of shorts from cross country camp in 2000 and a shirt that reads "Brown Chicken Brown Cow" and d) so embarrassing.)
Forget the fact that I still can't turn it on or that I mutilated three separate small trees, giggling and running to a different location maniacally like I was a chainsaw-yielding horror movie actor.
Did I mention how badly my arms hurt? As in cant.type.blog.entry.hurt.
But boy does that yard look danged good.
::does sexy whistle at yard::