Manual Laboring

Confession that's gonna BLOW YOUR MIND. I'm not greeeeat at the whole "manual labor" thing. I also use the term a bit more liberally than I probably should. It's become a synonym for "things Ryan does not want to do." More accurately, "things Ryan does not know how to do and does not see the point in learning how to do since 1/3 of his life is already over." Even more accurately, "things Craig does." 

To give you a better idea of how I react to manual labor, I maybe related too much to this guy's Snapchat story, because mowing the yard is the most absurd and infuriating chore ever created. Who was THAT bored that mowing became a thing? Why can't we all just agree that the world we all want to live in is one where we all keep goats or sheep or whatever animal eats grass like I eat pizza in our yards at all times to keep the grass as levels where sad boring peasant neighbors won't gossip about you and your non-conforming yard. 

Neighbor: "World peace? Nah, let's make sure we talk about how that guy does not mow his yard. That's the real issue." 

But seriously I think Ricky aka Snapchat story guy and I are like shade twins or something, though he admittedly took too long to bring Beyonce into the story. Not throwing shade, just saying I would have drawn a comparison between myself and Queen Bey long before he did NOT THAT I THINK I AM AT ALL EQUAL TO BEYONCE, ILLUMINATI.

I HAVE FORGOTTEN WHERE I WAS GOING WITH THIS POST.

As you've probably deduced, I don't mow the yard. Craig actually likes mowing the yard for reasons unknown to me (and I don't want to know those reasons), but he's so busy not letting anyone else direct theater in Springfield that he doesn't have time to enjoy such peasantries (not a typo, meant it). So what do we do? We pay someone to do it. Because no one should be doing that for free. I'm about to erect a statue of the man who mows our yard because he is a saint in my eyes.

Among the other things I don't know how to do don't like doing am too much of a diva to do is hedge trimming. I don't even know what a hedge is, because they are seemingly everything that is bush-like and not a flower or a tree. So that's the first problem: identifying what a hedge is. The second problem is that entrusting a fake adult like me with big scissors or a tiny mini chainsaw is like handing a shrapnel grenade or, like, a marker to a toddler. It isn't going to end well for anyone.

And don't even get me started on painting. Painting is the one thing that you don't really ever need help doing, but everyone volunteers to help anyway and you quickly figure out that everyone around you is a paint expert even though every single one of them has a different method of rolling a cylindrical sponge up and down a wall. 

You may be wondering what it is I do around the house, given my views thus far combined with the fact that I am a person physically capable of doing manual labor. I'm going to be honest with you. There is nothing better to me than a sparkling bathroom that I cleaned myself. Conversely, there is nothing worse than when my husband decides to use it. I love dusting furniture. I love cleaning the kitchen. I love sweeping and I love mopping. I don't love vacuuming, but that's because the noise is too much stimulation. I love baking. I love cooking. Anything that's indoors and would be stereotypical for a 1950s housewife, I'm all game. That's my realm. I would sooner eat shower drain hair than do something "outdoorsey chorsey" (don't even ask me what I'd be willing to do to avoid mowing the yard - there isn't much I wouldn't do).

If you are looking for someone to blame, I think it's obvious who you should point your finger at. THANKS FOR NOTHING, TAMMI.

I think it's pretty clear that I am manual labor avoidant, which is what makes the real point of this post all the more scandalous because SPOILER ALERT I did manual labor! Three times in the last month! I know, I know. Here are my adventures in manual laboring.

I HARVESTED AND PITTED BAKING CHERRIES

My husband being adorable per usual and me about
to sneeze. Definitely not whining about manual labor.

The day started off innocently enough. Craig told me we would be going to his parent's house to pick cherries from their cherry tree for his grandma's birthday. I had a suspicion that this was all a sinister plot invented by Craig to get me to embrace manual labor and tarnish the reputation I have worked hard to maintain with my in-laws: that I am a LADY. And I don't mean a woman or a girl. I mean the Victorian meaning of the word (mostly, that I am delicate). What better way to destroy all the work I've done to set the tone of my delicate nature than to force me into harvesting crops? THERE IS NO BETTER WAY.

At first, I was surprised that a cherry tree was an actual tree and not a "hedge." I don't know, it just seemed like cherries would grow on the all-encompassing hedge. No, no. No. It's definitely a tree. We had to get ladders! So that was surprising.

The truth of it is this: harvesting these cherries was fun! The problem with fun with others is that I'm tapped out after about one hour, and this was no different. I went from nonchalantly pushing Craig's grandmother down the hill and out of my way for cherries to quietly shrinking into the shade and cradling my cherry loot and whispering to them. 

Then a tarp was laid out around the tree. And then the shaking started. People started shaking the tree. It was pandaemonium. I thought the world was ending. All the cherries and spiders fell onto the tarp and everyone was joyous. Admittedly, it worked. The tarp was just lousy with cherries and crawling with spiders. But I already had my bucket, so I just observed and continued to cradle my cherries and probably spiders.

It got too manual when family members got on their hands and knees to try to sort the cherries from spiders on the tarp. If there's something I do worse than manual labor, that something is for sure arachnids. I would have hired someone, but that's just my privilege talking.

Not pictured here is the footage of me pitting ALL THE CHERRIES. With a bobby pin. Craig helped, I guess. But BEHOLD THE FRUIT OF MY OUR LABORS.

Pretty nervous about the frozen spider corpses in those bags, though.

I ROLLED THE TRASH CAN TO THE CURB TWICE

No picture because, that seemed embarrassing.

AND I AM GROWING ADORABLE FLOWER BABIES

Despite Craig's insinuation that I am not the person who grew these beautiful plants, I DID. No, I didn't like pot them or whatever, but I took them outside of our home and I feed them and do their hair and I even talk to them sometimes. If that isn't parenthood, then I don't wanna know what is.

Admittedly, the white one is struggling to stay alive and perky, but I feel like it's an entitled quitter. I haven't named it yet because it seems like it might not make it. The pink ones are named Derek, though.

So anyway, I'm not about to make a macguffin to do more manual labor, but I would be happy to engage with the ones listed here.