Last summer, when the power mower was broken and wouldn't run, I kept hinting to my husband that he ought to get it fixed, but somehow the message never sunk in.
Finally I thought of a clever way to make the point. When my husband arrived
home that day, he found me seated in the tall grass, busily snipping away with a
tiny pair of sewing scissors.
He watched silently for a short time, then went into the house. He was gone
only a few moments, and when he came out again he handed me a toothbrush. "When
you finish cutting the grass," he said, "you might as well sweep the sidewalks.