What a busy weekend — but a great one considering the less than pleasant shopping expedition to The Home Depot last Thursday. Perfect weather — something we were seriously due considering all the very grey days we’ve had since early May. There was good company, time to relax, and of course, our standard lots of good eats and the accompanying perpetual mess in the kitchen.
The MoH was able to snag the truck at The Home Depot on Friday after work — not bad for a second attempt. I guess all the DIY folks were already partying hearty, leaving the rental for those of us who are challenged in the “Managing to get a BBQ to their House” category.
“So who put the BBQ on the truck?” I asked the MoH as he jogged up the stairs to change his clothes after pulling the behemoth alongside our curb.
“Me and a guy at the store.”
“So then I can help you get it off the truck, right?” I responded like there was some sort of a legitimate comparison between my own strength and a guy’s–any guy’s. “It should be fine,” I mumbled, already wondering. “I’ll just look for something we can lower it down onto.” This had worked in the past when the two of us had to place a large TV into an armoire. Now that was scary, I remembered, picturing one or both of us bent backwards with an enormous TV ready to fall back onto our heads as we fell through the hardwood floor. Or the time that we moved the same armoire up to our bedroom after getting a new TV.
We lovingly refer to ourselves as The Doopids, because we can get things done most of the time, but it’s somewhat of a 3rd class circus act in the delivery. “All elbows and a-holes,” as my mother would say before pushing one of us away from the task and getting it done herself with a few grunts and a snort. Sadly, my mom wasn’t available to remind us that one buff senior can handily put to shame two younger desk jockeys — or act like she could.
But the MoH had his own plan in mind, and after locating the trusty toolbox that the RT and I got him for Christmas a few years ago, went to work removing the heavy lid and drawers to make it a bit lighter for yours truly to be able to tackle. “So what if it doesn’t work?” I asked while he was shoving screws and washers into his pockets. You know, one of those motivating questions that only a wife can ask at that perfect moment. Always the planner, I.
“Well, we’ll just have to go and knock on doors to beg neighbors we never talk to for help,” he replied with just the slightest twinge of sarcasm, head still bent to his task. *On a Friday evening at 6:30?*
But then the guy next door who plays the piano at a posh restaurant appeared from his garage, calling his usual greeting. He was quickly into his car and backing out of his driveway, all the while asking what we were doing, like it wasn’t plainly obvious. “Hey, you guys need some help?” he continued in reverse, paying more attention to the MoH on the back of the orange truck than his rear view mirror.
“Sure, if you’ve got the time,” the MoH responded, cracking me up, knowing he wasn’t serious.
“Well, I’ve got a slipped disk, but I’ll do what I can,” the Piano Man answered before I could interrupt.
“You’re not going to help if you’ve got a back injury,” I called thinking about not wanting to be law suit bait. The MoH had the BBQ to the edge of the truck by this time, and was getting ready to lower it down to the chest of drawers I had dragged from the garage. I figured if we could lower it to sit a bit on that, we could muster up the energy to lower it the rest of the way to the ground. It wasn’t as heavy as I thought it was going to be, but the Piano Man was out of his car at this point doing what he could to “spot” like we were engaged in some bizarre gymnastics routine.
No sweat outside of my wondering whether the MoH would slice his throat on the edge of the damn thing because his grip was much lower than mine and the weight of it was leaning heavily on his neck. Done. Well, not the neck slicing — the lowering the thing to the ground. We hoisted it up the outside stairs and around back to its new home in only a few more minutes. Voila. Not bad for a day-and-a-half’s work, two stores, eight employees, a truck, 550 bucks, and two less than mechanically inclined and not very muscled suburbanites. The MoH was back in the orange flatbed and back to The Home Depot, but just over the 70 minute mark that would keep the rental in the 20 buck zone. Just another jab to make it burn.
Finish things off with two hickory-roasted pork tenderloins, and a top sirloin, served with Henry Bain Sauce and some Chow-chow. I know. I’d never heard of it, either, but my wonderful father-in-law is from Kentucky, so I decided to delve into a Kentucky influenced southern spread for our Father’s Day celebration. Yes, there were Mint Juleps all ’round. I did quickly discover that I’m not quite up to sucking bourbon and mint flavored sugar thorough a straw. My father-in-law told me that it was okay because after all, Mint Juleps were most likely the reason the South lost the Civil War. Sheesh. No doubt. *hick*
Thank goodness that BBQs last us about eight years. Now to rid ourselves of the beast sitting in the garage. Oh, to live in a neighborhood where you’re allowed to put an old BBQ by the curbside with a sign that says, “Free” like we used to be able to do. Not here. Our trusty monthly newsletter included a pleasant reminder that we will have a more attractive community if we remember not to put our trash cans out until after 6PM on Sunday night, keep our garage doors closed, and park our cars in our garages instead of in our driveways.
I have noticed that residents park their cars outside the community gate when they’re trying to sell them. Well, until somebody gets pissed off that there is an “inactive” car sitting in the street and they call the police to ticket it. Which the police do. Whatever.
So maybe I’ll roll the Great Black Grease Beast down the street tomorrow morning when I set out for my 5:30 walk. A bit of WD-40 on the wheels will certainly keep it from making as much noise as the paper lady’s truck, and I’ll park it on the curb with a big sign that says, “STILL WORKS.”
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