When the power mower broke and wouldn't run, I kept hinting to my husband that he ought to get it fixed, but somehow the 'message' never sank in.  Finally, I thought of a clever way to make my 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 and then went into the house.  He was gone only a few moments when he came out again.

He handed me a toothbrush.  "When you finish cutting the grass," he said, "you might as well sweep the drive-way." 

The doctors say he will probably live, but it will be quite awhile before all the casts come off.