What I had in mind

by Katie on October 28, 2011

We just wrapped up planting and irrigating our winter yard this week, which required me to mow our yard four times since Tuesday. Which isn’t the point of the story at all; I just wanted to throw that out there.

Wednesday in particular was “yard day” around here. I mowed, Brandon spread seed, I mowed again, Brandon ran a little harrow behind the four-wheeler. Near the end of my second mow, my belly was talking to me. You see, it was past our supper time of late, and my body was not happy with me at all. With only about ten minutes left in this cycle, my mower died. Like, out of nowhere died. Not the coughing, chugging, slow death type. The going fine and then not going at all type.

Cue the whining on my part.

I was hungry, I had a dead mower, and according to Brandon I had to finish this round, then mow again behind the harrow before our irrigation water arrived at 6am the next day. All of which I could handle…if you removed the hunger factor.

So yeah, back to the whining.

I basically approached Brandon on my knees, begging and pleading to at least put supper in the oven when I finished that round of mowing, assuming he could get my mower started again.

I was so caught up in my hunger, I didn’t even check the gas in my mower.

When we went over for Brandon to inspect it, I was still pleading my case. “Brandon, you know me. I don’t run without fuel.”

As he opened the gas cap, he replied, “Katie…neither does your mower.”

Which did nothing to help my case. Reminder for next time I’m arguing for something:  don’t make yourself look dumb in the process.

Brandon eventually came around, and offered up the bright idea that he take care of getting supper in the oven while I finished mowing.

Done deal in my book. All I wanted was food.

Then he asked what all would be involved with that task.

“Oh, it’s so easy,” I said. “I knew we would be busy today, so I got out some leftover spaghetti meat sauce from the freezer. All you have to do it boil some noodles, mix it all together, put some Italian cheese on top from the fridge drawer, and pop it in the oven, so that it’s baked spaghetti, like you like. The garlic bread is in the freezer.”

The longer I talked (which, as you can see, wasn’t long at all), the more his eyes seemed to glaze over.

Eventually, he said, “…That’s not really what I had in mind…you know, why don’t you just finish up what little you have left here, then you can go in and take care of supper? I think that will work better.”

But I caught him:  “Um, it’s not that that will work better. It’s that supper, and what you ‘had in mind’ was a little more than putting a slice of cheese on a piece of bread and calling it good.”

“You may be on to something…” he admitted.


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