Yesterday I got home from work and my lawn was mowed.

Obviously, I didn’t mow it.  That’s not my job.

And Justin didn’t mow it, since I’m pretty sure his superiors in Afghanistan would consider that an excessively long lunch break.

So it must have been the scrawny, bronze tanned stoner kid I hired to do it but was fairly convinced would forget, what with all of the bong-hitting hours between the time I hired him and the time he was scheduled to mow.

What he did forget, apparently, is the fact that I showed him, told him, and texted him to be careful about not cutting the dogs’ electric fence.

Yes, I electrocute my own dogs.

But it’s only because I love them.

Wouldn’t you love faces like these?

Anyway.

So I came home yesterday to fresh-cut grass and the incessant beep of the dog detainment system, indicating a cut wire.

Not surprising.

Also, I can’t find where the wire is apparently cut, since most of it is buried.

Also not surprising.

So now I feel like the helpless girl who can’t figure out how to fix a damn fence.

This is surprising.

Because normally, given enough time, I can figure things out.  I can get ‘er done.  But this time, I’m stumped.  And frustrated.  And for someone who owns canines whose progressive learning capabilities closely resemble those of the Jurassic Park velociraptors, we could be in trouble when they realize their collars no longer beep.

So.

As satisfying as it is to do things on my own, to get my hands a little dirty, to experience the stiffness and stench after a day of manual labor, I realize.

Sometimes I just want someone to do it for me.

I think I could be happy if my hands and my office always looked like this. As long as someone else is mowing my lawn.

I know they say that money can’t buy you happiness, but I think having enough money to pay people to do stuff for me would, in fact, make me very happy indeed.

At least in the sense of immediate gratification.

And there’s nothing, as far as I can tell, wrong with immediate gratification.  Like a handful of Reece’s Pieces and an angst-filled episode of Dawson’s Creek.  Or a cool glass of Riesling and a book on the back deck.  Or a morning jaunt with some literotica and my vibrator.

What?

Just seeing if you’re still paying attention.

My point is that satisfaction earned is not necessarily better than satisfaction bought.  That, in this life, some ventures are worth our time and others are not.

It’s a first-world privilege, and I’m willing to accept it.

So.

Who do I call to fix a fence?