Let’s Talk About Rex

One thing that’s certifiably male about me is my disdain for anyone overbearing trying to tell me how to do things, or that I need to do certain things at all, or just the general stare and smirk of someone who obviously opines that I perform my life’s tasks in a manner which is somehow less than his or hers.

As I matured past adolescence into adulthood, the most common source of this issue was my mother.  The most amazingly responsible, dependable person I’ve ever met, she definitely has a lot of qualities that I strive to mimic, and she certainly wishes I was more like her as well.  She has her system for remembering every detail of her life, my dad’s life, my life, and the lives of so many others, I can’t even comprehend it.  I’m not her, however.  I’m notoriously forgetful, and I have a tendency to pay less than full attention to details of stories or plans that don’t appear to be absolutely critical to MY life.

My mom, for instance, sends e-mails letting me know when distant relatives have birthdays or when old acquaintances of hers have new grandkids, neither of which are happenings that affect me or my daily routine.  These tiny less-than-blips on my radar are the kinds of things my mom is surprised to find that I haven’t committed to memory when she mentions them 3 weeks later and I don’t know what she’s talking about.

As it turns out, an overbearing mom is a lot less overbearing when you move from a house right next door to a town an hour’s drive away.  Once you do that, the “boy, your grass is high” is replaced by “I’ve missed you.”  The annoyance of a disapproving look is supplanted by the warmth of togetherness, and it’s truly a joy to spend time together.

Where do I live now?  Right next door to Rex – my fiance’s dad.  Today he asked her if I was ever going to bring back his miter saw, which I borrowed to cut trim for our hallway (remember that DIY home project nonsense I swore I didn’t do?); coincidentally, while he was talking to her on the phone, I was on the back porch cutting trim with the miter saw in question.  She told him I was actually finishing the trim as they spoke, so he hung up and walked over to our place, to see for himself I suppose.  He interrupted my work to ask why I had my guide hand so close to the blade and why I hadn’t stained the trim before cutting it, then he commented that it’s a shame I don’t play in a band any more since I obviously love to play music.  After some more chit chat, he walked around the back side of the yard.  Minutes later, I heard his lawn tractor fire up and around he came to my lawn.

Boy, my grass was high.

-J

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~ by hamiltonjacobs on October 14, 2012.

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