The man buys me peculiar presents.
Not that I mind, they’re mostly items I’ve been softly kvetching about before he tosses them into my lap.
One spring it was three yards of compost, another saw two pallets of paving stone delivered. Over the years I have received two gas grills, one fire pit, a load of gravel, three shovels, two fine loppers, a wheelbarrow, several bags of cement, a gun, enough sand to turn a huge, old pond into a cool sandbox and a window air conditioning unit for the bedroom when menopause tried to catch my hair on fire at two at in the morning.
Last week, he gave me a chainsaw.
I don’t recall ever once mentioning a chainsaw, not even under my breath.
Power tools scare me back into childhood nightmare territory. I’d rather use a butter knife to drive in a screw than work up the courage to touch the drill, snip the overgrown walkway grass with scissors before shouldering the giant weed wacker, use my shoe as a makeshift hammer until hell froze over or my hands ran bloody before plugging in the pneumatic nailer.
I don’t know why. Chalk it up to my long list of irrational neurosis which includes the dark fear of being mauled to death by wild monkeys in upscale suburbia.
This particular chainsaw is a junior model; quite small, neon green and possessing a safety catch similar to my beloved semi-automatic. A sturdy child could handle this wee tool without breaking a sweat or suffering major arterial blood loss, neither of which mitigated my panic factor one damn bit.
My first balky lesson took place on our ancient, deformed pear tree. A plant that I despise beyond reason. It stands Oz warped against the night sky, ugly with its witch finger twigs waving over my boy’s bedrooms, offering up bitter, fallen fruit that tempt the dogs into flagrant states of explosive diarrhea.
I truly hate this foul tree.
The first cut felt almost soft, like running your fingertips over the rough edge of raw cut silk, so much easier than the sticky hack-bow I’ve manhandled into compliance over the past ten years.
Twenty minutes later, confidence found, I was ripping through the backyard like a tiny, euphoric lumberjack.
This chainsaw is pure magic, an absolute wonder of mechanical engineering. Our tree canopy will be lucky to see a stray branch swaying within my newfound reach.
Much love for the man who gives me such strange and perfectly suited gifts.
Maybe next year he’ll cut down that awful fucking pear tree.
Looks like your man is gonna get him some beaver, then, darlin’ Daph!
The mental picture I have that you’ve painted of a joyously demented lumberjack in your backyard makes me laugh.
Ah, a chainsaw, a Poulan, I’d wager, judging from your description of it being “neon green,” fit for a woman’s more delicate hands.
Being a tree trimmer in my younger days, prior to my stint in the Navy, I’ll offer one bit of advice. If climbing a tree, or a ladder for that matter, to attain the perfect position to amputate a particularly offending limb, the tree’s limb mind you, if you lose your perch, and begin to tumble earthward, toss the chainsaw and save yourself. A chainsaw can be replaced.
For some reason, this brought to mind a vixen at the club in St. Pete…hiking boots, socks scrunched down, short shorts and a flannel tied neatly…I surrendered rather a lot of someone else’s money to that lovely creature.
Unlike the Fluke whore, she earned it.
A group of which I am a part has constant discussions about “women’s mysteries.” Most of it is lefty feminist crapola, but now and then some genuine insight does emerge. As a counterpart, one gathering of this crowd features a men’s event.
The men’s event generally features a lot of grunting, growling, and pushing of large logs from one place to another. Last time, as the the belches and groin scratching was happening, a nearby worker (who was not part of the event) started up a backhoe to do some digging.
Later that night, I was talking to a woman who had listened to the men’s event from a distance. She was excited. “I finally understand men’s mysteries. You guys were shoving the log around and then someone brought in the backhoe to get the job done fast. That’s the key to men! Power tools!”
She’s not half wrong. Ayn Rand understood it. And it’s always very interesting to me to watch a gal take on a power tool for the first time, and then gain control of it.
Make sure you never use that chainsaw with dull cutters. You can buy a decent sharpening system for a few dollars. Learn how to use it. Few things are more dangerous than a chainsaw with dull cutters.
No ladders, sharpen my blade, have sex.
Got it!
I don’t know if I’d be giving a menopausal woman a chainsaw, but I guess Mr. Haven is a confident man.
[...] This is not to say, however, that all women take equally well to devices of this sort: Power tools scare me back into childhood nightmare territory. I’d rather use a butter knife to drive in a screw than work up the courage to touch the drill, snip the overgrown walkway grass with scissors before shouldering the giant weed wacker, use my shoe as a makeshift hammer until hell froze over or my hands ran bloody before plugging in the pneumatic nailer. [...]
I bought one of those inexpensive sharpeners. It sucks. I recommend, for the lumberjack in spirit, but not in fact, that you simply buy a spare chain, and have it sharpened by the chain saw shop when you swap them out.
Because you made me smile, I linked to your post here: http://bobagard.blogspot.com/2012/03/when-man-gives-his-wife-chainsaw.html