Because of the super warm weather this weekend (again…we’re going to pay for it in April, I just know it), I did (and by I, I mean my boyfriend) some yard work. Basically, I decided that the crepe myrtle needed to be cut down. Finally. The past two months I’ve been driving by beautifully myrtles showing off their clean lines…devoid of all scraggles. I just felt inadequate and I know my myrtle was feeling pretty shabby.
The trimming was progressing nicely, the kids were making tree forts and then a branch was too thick for the trimmy tool thing.
Boyfriend offered to go buy a hand saw to finish the job.
Done. Happy myrtle.
Much, much later today he revealed how he almost bought a chain saw. I looked at the man like he was crazy. WHO buys a chainsaw? To keep in the garage? He asked me where else it should be kept and I said behind lock and key in a fully secured facility no where near my house. Duh. Why don’t I want a chainsaw? Y’all. He was serious. Much blah, blah, blah commenced about the speed of branch removal. There is NO way that a chainsaw will be in my garage just waiting for the murderer to break into the garage, find the chainsaw, fill it with gas, come in to the house, and then chop me into bits. This is Texas. I know better than to tempt fate.
Really? He asks. You think that could happen?
So, I did what anyone else would do. I asked the google (love you Nina).
1 in 4469 – odds of chainsaw injury (I know. That’s just injury, but please. They don’t want to scare everyone with the actual frequency of chainsaw massacres.)