Thursday, June 21, 2012
“Light it,” he said.
“How?” I said.
Thus, began a long explanation over which way to turn the nozzles during which time I zoned out and wished I had a pencil on the boat to jot it down.
Instead, I looked at my friend, who had never grilled before either, and said, “Got that?”
She assured me that she, in fact, did.
We soon approached the grill, spatula in hand, because how else do you approach a grill?
“Now what did he say to do?” my friend asked.
Fortunately, the instructions were printed on it. We followed them to a tee, even the part that said if you push the self-igniting button, and it doesn’t light, then wait five minutes before pushing again. After a few intervals, we realized the sucker was not going to self-ignite.
That’s when my friend picked up the gas can. It was empty.
“I think there’s another one in the shed,” I said, and since that naturally fell under my husband’s list of obligations, she and I happily went inside and chatted and ate crab dip.
Little while later, with the threat of rain on the horizon, the men and children got off the boat, tired and very hungry.
“Where are the hamburgers?” my husband asked.
“Oh, we are out of gas,” I said.
He looked perturbed and then changed the tank, as my friend and I poured ourselves some sweet tea and worked on solving the world’s problems.
“Put the burgers on while I put the boat up,” he said.
“Don’t leave the grill!” Both of our husbands shouted in unison.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Instead, I yelled, “Here just take it. It’s free.”
Have you ever tried giving things away at yard sales? It’s impossible.
“What’s wrong with it?” the lady asked.
“Nothing. I just don’t want it. It still has the tags. Look!” I said thrusting the item under her nose.
She sniffed and inspected the item, which happened to be a perfectly decent purse. She looked inside each section, turned it inside out, and then held it at arm’s length as if it were contaminated.
“Why are you giving it away?” she asked suspiciously.
“It was a gift. OK, if it makes you feel better, then I’ll take 25 cents for it. It’s never been used.”
The lady looked at her husband and nodded her head toward me and said, “Give her a quarter.”
The man griped about the fact that she never has any money, as he pretended to dig around in his pocket. The woman reminded him of some purchases he’d made and exactly how much they cost. The man then reminded her that she had a dozen purses at home.
At which time, in order to stop a potential domestic dispute, I yelled, “Just take it! Really. You can have it. I don’t want it. I was just going to throw it out anyway.”
The woman looked smug, tucked the bag under her arm, gave her husband a nod as if to say get-in-the-car-before-this-sucker-changes-her-mind, and they hightailed it out of there.
“Darn, I should have kept that one,” I said, a case of deep sellers remorse sinking in.
“Don’t feel bad,” my husband said. “We’ve already made $5.”
“We did? How? That was our first customer.”
“Oh, I cleaned out all of your purses that you plan to sell and found $5.”
“It wasn’t all in change, either, Mama,” said my son. “There were some dollar bills in there, too.”
My attitude suddenly brighten. At least my precious purses were going to a good home. Well, sort of, and if we made enough money, I could more than likely justify the purchase of a new one. Hmmmm â ¦
The next customer pulled up and grabbed a bright yellow bag that I really loved and asked.
“What’s wrong with this one?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s just too small for me.”
My family looked at me as if I were crazy. The bag was huge.
“Will you take less for it?”
I couldn’t take anymore.
“Ask him,” I said, pointing to my husband, who had the idea for the sale.
I took the $5 and grabbed my keys.
“I’m going to get breakfast now. I will bring you back some chicken biscuits.”
“Noooooo!” my husband shouted, visions of a clutter-free home shattered.
“I tried to see if he’d take less for it,” my son said. “But Mom wouldn’t let me.”
“They’re our neighbors!” I said. “I’m not bartering with them.”
And, I decided that perhaps there is some value in yard sales after all.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
“Now you see how I feel!” I heard recently after I tried to cram a month’s worth of exercise into one day as part of a “take the stairs” contest that was being held at work. Instead of working my way up, so to speak, I decided to go down 22 flights of stairs not once, not twice, not three times but four, yes, four times. That’s 88 flights of stairs.
And it hurt. In fact, it hurt so darn bad that I woke up the next day and seriously considered calling in sick to work. I probably would have, too, if the phone had been within reach of the bed. Instead, I spent five minutes cursing, 10 minutes trying to stretch and massage my calves, and about 15 praying. I figured that was a good, healthy balance.
I hobbled into work, and thanked God for elevators as I pushed the button. I believe they really are a gift from above. I realized it must be bad when a co-worker suggested I use Bengay, and I actually thought that sounded like a good idea.
Sadly, that’s not the only sign that I might not be as young as my mind thinks I am. Earlier in the week, I got a new computer that required the screen to be pushed farther back on my desk. It was then that I realized something was wrong with the font. I don’t care what the size said, I couldn’t read it. Obviously, it was broken. There was no way I needed large print.
I squinted and strained until desperation and a deadline required me to ask a co-worker whom I knew had larger font how to change mine.
I whispered the request into her ear.
Peels of laughter and a hearty, “Welcome to the club!”
Then, to my horror, she then turned to a much younger co-worker and said, “You changed my font. Can you please change Leigh’s? She can’t see the screen.”
In my mind I heard her add, “She’s getting old.”
He may have been wondering what I was thinking about his first sign of aging (though I don’t think men wonder such things), but the truth was I felt pure delight. To me, it meant I no longer had to read his menus.