Kick Ass!

My mood has lately been one of frustration (see previous post).  When I get mad, I get kick ass!

For those of you who don’t read this regularly, well, shame on you.  But seriously, me getting kick ass involves building, fixing, or working on something that will involve work gloves…the big leather kind reserved for men with real farmer’s tans.  I love them.

I love the way they trap dirt around your fingers.  I love the way they smell like the last nasty thing you were working on.  I love that I can rake without getting blisters.  I love that I can pull things out by the roots.  They are part of my bliss.

But this day, I discovered something even more amazing.  I know what you’re thinking, “Sarah, there is certainly nothing more kick ass than work gloves!”  But there is, there is!  The minute you put these little beauties on you start walking around like you’ve been given a testosterone injection.  Superman?  Pansy.  The Terminator?  Kitten.  My newest kick ass items are:  drum roll please… contractor grade knee pads.  (Can you hear me shriek with glee?  I am shrieking!)

Unbeknowst to me, the DH bought two sets of these miracles when we were retiling the bathroom.  I don’t remember using them, but that was because I ended up doing most of the cutting, while he was more in charge of laying the tile.

We were rummaging around in the garage looking for the gardening tools that the kids misplaced at the end of last season when the DH carelessly tossed the pads my way.  My eyes became the size of saucers and I clutched them to my chest.  “Can I use these?”  “Sure,” the DH replied, not at all aware of the beast he was now unleasing.

These are not your volleyball knee pads.  No sir, these are much more serious.  They are black and red and huge and have these gel plastic thingies that trick your knees into thinking they are floating on a bed of baby clouds when instead they are crushing into pine needles.  Where have you been all my life?

I became a whirling dervish of weeding, and mulching, and cultivating and planting.  I was unstoppable.  The backyard was reeling with disbelief.  I crawled around the pine tree pulling out the noxious ground cover.  I got 10 years of leaves out from underneath and around the burning bushes.  I attacked the dandelions with a zealot’s passion.  The glory of these things is that you don’t have to remember to bring them with you when you switch weeding sites.  They just magically come with you!  Huzzah!

By the time the terrors got back from school I was sunburnt, out of batteries on the iPod, my arms were cut to shreds, there were boulder sized chunks of dirt in my shoes, and my ass was covered with elm seeds.


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