There are times when I stop and think in how much of a rut my life is lived in. It is inaccurate to say “a rut” because, as I think about it, it is apparent there are several ruts criss-crossing each other and winding like a maze. Some are seasonal, others trendy and a good many linked to less than exemplary personality traits.

But let’s look at one of the seasonal ones – the lawn mowing rut. Ironically, in the winter it becomes over-grown, but when it’s in service, it drives Shane crazy. He hates the lawn mower. I think it is because I have mowed over several of his Wubbas. I have tried to be careful, and now that I am using the electric mower I am especially vigilant. That mower is quite light, however, and do you know Shane can pick up a wheel and give it a shake while the mower is running? Obviously, the sight of destroyed Wubbas has caused psychological problems. I base this evaluation on my tendency to yell, “Shane, you psycho. let go of the mower!”

I try to be sensitive; I do not paint little wubba icons on the mower to keep count. I do not give my machine a name, oh, such as Wubba Killer.

But, it is that day again – mower in the backyard day.  The dog and I probably both need tranquilizers . . .