Other Half has returned home . . . to solve my mower problems.  He is tired of fixing Beast the FrankenMower so yesterday when he saw a used Sears Craftsman for sale, he put money down on that puppy. It's nice.  It sorta looks like Beast did many, many, many years ago.

Other Half returned home yesterday.  He has to work night shift tonight.  Somewhere in the middle, he has to solve all my problems and get still some sleep. Things aren't looking too good for Other Half where that's concerned.

He promised the seller that we'd pick up the mower this morning between 9 and 10.  Rule #1 - Never pin yourself down to a number.  It just tempts fate too much.

And this is why you never tempt fate:

Other Half climbs into the dually.  It is parked in front of the big horse trailer. I ask him, "Why is the truck hooked to the trailer?"

"It's not. I was working in the trailer last night and needed the lights."

Okay.  That's good enough for me.  So I sip coffee while he pulls the dually away from the trailer.  The cord, that big one, the really expensive one, with the really expensive plug,  yeah, that one, the cord stays with the truck.  I holler but it's too late.  SNAP!  The plug snaps off and the cord flaps back against the horse trailer.  Apparently that really expensive plug was caught up on the tail gate.  Other Half leaps out of the truck and stalks to the back of the trailer.  There is a lot of cussing. We have been awake for 30 minutes.

So we table the major project of fixing the expensive plug because we must pick up the lawn mower. As fate would have it, the ball on the truck is too big for the hitch on the little trailer. (That happens whenever you pin yourself down to a specific time.)  So I calmly sip coffee while he is on his hands and knees at the trailer hitch, cussing. There is a lull in the cussing when he realizes the hitch on the jeep is the perfect size for the little trailer.  More cussing when he discovers the hitch lock doesn't want to come off the truck. 

He stalks away to get the Magic Man Medicine also known as WD40 spray.  A few spritzes of WD40 and the hitches are switched.  The dogs and I watch all this with great interest.  I sip coffee.  (I must take a moment to point out that I heartily agree with the Sweet Potato Queens.  The most important words that a man can say to a woman are "Let Me Do That For You."  Other Half will read this and next week I'll find myself under the truck while he sips coffee.)

Anyway, we finally get the trailer hitched up and head over to pick up the mower.  Money changes hands and the mower is loaded.  Woo hoo!  While following Other Half in my new Monster Pickup Truck I notice there is a definite wobble on the right side of the trailer.  Uh oh!  I pick up the cell phone.

"You have a flat tire on the trailer."

There is a long pause.  I know he is cussing under his breath.  "How flat is it?"

This question confuses me.  Flat is flat.  What does a man mean when he asks "How flat is it?"

"It's flat."

"Well, we'll have to drive to a gas station."

That makes sense.  So I ponder the question, "How flat is it," as I watch the trailer wobble down the road.  Soon the smell of burning rubber wafts through my air conditioning vent.  That pretty much answers the question.  As he pulls into a gas station, I hop out and inform him that the tire is shot.

"How do you know?" he growls as he walks back toward the trailer.

"Cuz it's falling apart."  (I kinda thought that was a no-brainer.  Even a "girl" can figure that one out. But since he is having a Very Bad Day already, I swing him some slack and don't point it out.)

He stands over the sad little tire and there is more cussing.  Then he climbs into the back of the dually and opens the tool box. There is much tossing of tools.  There is mumbled cussing.  Eventually a tire iron and a big-ass jack get tossed out.  The big-ass jack looks like something I want to play with. I pick it up and try to figure out how it works.  Other Half is not in the mood to give me a lesson on How To Use A Big-Ass Jack.  He quietly takes it away and does it himself.  No problem.  I didn't really want to use it any way.  He quickly jacks up Little Trailer and reaches for the spare.  That's when he figures out the tire iron is too big.  There is much cussing and the F-Bomb explodes.  Several times.

It is hot. I think now might be a good time to head off to the convenience store to get him some snuff and caffeine.  He asks me to see if the convenience store sells tire-irons.  Really? I do not say this out loud. He is sweating and his face is red.  The last thing he wants to hear is me inform him that Ahmed doesn't even know what a four-point tire-iron is, much less sell them.  So . . .  I flip-flop into the local Valero station.  Sure enough, no tire-irons.  Ahmed has absolutely no clue what I'm talking about.  No problem.  There is a busy gas station across the street.  Do I expect that THEY will sell tire-irons?  No.  I expect that they will have men.  Real Men.  Southern Men. Men who have tool boxes on their trucks.  Since Other Half is a Southern Man, and is as helpful and gracious as any member of the breed, I am completely shameless in my search to find help for him.

So I flip-flop my way across the street.  This gas station is bustling with folks.  I stand in the sun and wait for divine guidance.  Where Lord, is a man who can help? 

Ask, and ye shall receive. I head into the store and the door is opened for me by a Bona Fide Southern Man.  (Southern Men open doors for ladies . . . even middle-aged ladies in flip-flops) So I take a closer look at Southern Man.  Yep. Here was definitely someone who could help Other Half.  He was standing by the ice machine with several other men, waiting for his turn to get ice.

"Excuse me.  I need some help."

The other men at the the ice machine keep loading ice.  (They were certainly NOT true Southern Men.)  Southern Man looks straight at me, waiting to hear the problem.  I explain that My Other Half is having a Very Bad Day and needs Man-Help. He squints into the sunlight and sees Other Half bent over the trailer. After a minute of tossing around the tools in the back of his truck, he locates a small tire-iron and agrees to head across the street.  I trot off, confident that Southern Man will be true to his word.  Sure enough, he beats me over there.

He and Other Half share a Man-Moment as they stand over the trailer and examine the problem. The tire-iron is a perfect fit.  Other Half's blood pressure is coming down. While Other Half gets the tire off, Southern Man excuses himself to go into the Valero station to get a gallon of milk.  That's when I realize that Southern Man left the Busy Gas Station without his ice and milk so that he could come help us.  Bless his heart!    

Where would this world be without the grace and goodness of Southern Men? 

(Eventually my Very Own Southern Man got my yard mowed with the new mower. Then he got me packed up and shipped off to work. Hopefully he will get a nap before he has to work tonight.  If he doesn't it's because he's spending the afternoon trying to fix the very expensive plug on the horse trailer. Such is the nature of men.)