Sept. 21, 2009

Confessions of a sexist gardener

The Family Guy
By Brett Buckner

I have been called many things, but “sexist” has never been one. Sexy? Yes. Sexist? No. Whether it's stayin' home to bake me a pumpkin pie, or goin' mud-boggin' with the girls, it's of little consequence to me what women do. I try to keep from sticking my nose or my opinion where it doesn't belong.

Besides I've got enough problems, namely being surrounded by three beautiful ladies who very generally make about as much sense to me as Sudoku.

So how could I possibly be sexist?

My Lovely Wife has and always will earn more money than me because her skill set — infinitely more vital and useful than my own — affords me the luxury of pursuing my own financially feeble, yet rewarding, dream of freelance writing.

But for all my modest aspirations and liberal leanings, it turns out I've got a bit more “oink” than I realized. When it comes to lawn care, I'm a pig of the chauvinist persuasion — odd, given that most men consider gardening to be women's work anyway.

That's not really fair. Rather, it's man's job to tame the land while women plant the pretty flowers. Personally, I enjoy doing both and have never felt my masculinity threatened simply because I can talk about pansies without giggling and can spot different varieties of spirea at 100 paces.

So imagine my surprise when a passing comment from My Lovely Wife was taken as an affront to my manliness.

After a polite discussion one Saturday morning over my need for something more than a sweat-stained Auburn hat that smells like old money to protect my bald noggin, I kissed My Lovely Wife and walked toward the lawn mower.

“Ya know, I could cut the grass for you sometimes,” she said.

I actually laughed. It wasn't dismissive or mean-spirited. It just leapt out before I could swallow it back. “What?” she continued, feeling challenged. “I could!”

Let me state for the record that I have no doubt she could mow the lawn perfectly. My Lovely Wife is way smarter and has far more patience than I. And after watching her give birth, I can also say she's much stronger.

But letting her push the lawnmower was simply out of the question, because doing so would totally ruin my reputation as a dude. And given my compulsion for constant house cleaning, not to mention that whole Febreeze/Glade Plug-In addiction, one more knock against my manhood and I might wake up neutered.

Save for eating hot wings at Hooter's and writing our names in the snow, mowing the lawn is the last place where men can get away with acting like men.

We get to sweat and take our shirts off without scaring schoolchildren. Pouring gas and checking oil is involved. There's the angry yanking of the starter cord, and we get to work with small engines while showing off our mighty muscles (or at least the figment of muscles that still exist in our imaginations).

And best of all, for me at least, the powerful groan that comes from sharpened metal blades decapitating defenseless blades of grass is the only thing loud enough to chase those Barry Manilow songs out of my head for good.

“At the Copa, Copacabana?” Not today, Barry. Not today.

So with all due respect to My Lovely Wife, keep your hands off my mower. And don't even think of touching my weed whacker.

Bet'cha never heard a woman say that.
Brett Buckner is an award-winning former columnist for the Anniston Star. He lives in Columbus, Ga. with his wife, daughter and stepdaughter. His humor column appears regularly in The Post. Contract Brett at brett.buckner@yahoo.com.