The Good Son
In return for all of the many gifts they have given me (you know, small things, like life, automobiles, a college education), I am occasionally asked to help them out with things. As a teenager, this meant that I had to mow the yard, clean my room, etc. Now as a young adult this means that I have to mow the yard when I am at the house, and clean up my room that is now called a 'guest room'. Thing's haven't changed so much I guess. I'd like to add that mowing the yard is no small feat. My folks live on an acre and my dad is very particular about how the grass gets cut. The front yard must be mowed with a push mower on a diagonal line. The front portion of the back yard must also be mowed with the push mower, but it doesn't matter what pattern you use. And the back portion of the back yard can be cut with a riding mower. So now that I'm out of the house, all of this falls on my dad's shoulders, and his shoulders already have a lot resting on them, so it doesn't bother me at all to swing by the house on the weekend and mow a bit in exchange for some food and a swim.
Sometimes my assistance is needed for special projects. One time I was asked to come by and help paint a few rooms, which I did, until the blackout. Sometimes they need me to come over with my truck to help transport large pieces of furniture or appliances that they've bought. And sometimes they just need my brute strength to help move things, which is what they needed recently when my mom decided to have a garage sale and get rid of many large pieces she has accumulated over the years. Now, I had no problems with this request, except that it coincided with a free work happy hour. Make sure you read that sentence again. Are we all understanding the concept of a FREE happy hour? We are? Good. I figured this was no problem; because I could hang out at the bar for an hour or so, then go home to help out. And that was what I really intended to do. I promise. Quit laughing.
Needless to say, I stayed at the happy hour longer than anticipated. Like two hours longer than anticipated. I left as the sun was setting and debated on calling my parents to tell them I was not up to the task tonight. But that could mean getting in trouble, or disappointment, and I am nothing if not a people pleaser, so this was out of the question. So I went home to help, and these were the things I had to do in my post-happy hour splendor.
1. Help my dad move a couch to the driveway. Not so bad under normal circumstances. After a happy hour though? It's more like, "A COUCH? I have to move a COUCH? Who even uses COUCHES? This COUCH is mammoth. I'm HUNGRY!" At one point while my dad and I were moving the SLEEPER couch, he looks directly at me and asks, "Are you still drunk?" To which I replied, "No....are you?" I thought it was funny.
2. Remove a large piece of glass from a framed painting because the glass had cracked. Once again, not so bad, but after a happy hour? "I'll remove this glass with my hands. I'll break it with MY HANDS so it will be easier to remove. My hands are bionic. My hands are bleeding. Why are my hands bleeding? Does glass cut the skin? It does? Well, crap." After this brilliant idea, I opted to take a hammer and smack that glass up, then dump all the death shards into the trash can.
3. Take the "Garage Sale" signs and hammer them into the ground at strategic locations by our neighborhood. Boy, this was a task. My concentration had improved over the few hours, so I was at least hitting the stake, most of the time. Once in awhile I would completely miss the stake, which would throw the balance off a bit. Then one time I went to swing the hammer and the metal head flew off and landed in the middle of the street. And throughout this entire process I was singing a modified version of "If I Had a Hammer" which was appropriate, and genius.
4. Now this isn't something I was required to do, but it usually happens if I am at home and have had a few drinks. When this happens I tend to raid the kitchen for some type of snack, and then proceed to feed myself and the dogs. One time when I was housesitting I fed our springer spaniel half a bag of Frito's simply because he kept begging for more. But then when the bag was empty I was all, "Who ate all my Frito's? I'm still HUNGRY!" And I've thrown quite a few grapes his way just because it cracks me up to watch him eat them. The snack of choice this particular night was goldfish, and the little schnauzer loves nothing more than goldfish, which we are NOT supposed to feed him. But I could not deny the wagging of that nub of a tail, and he got about 50 smiling goldfish. No wonder he's a chunk.
So if any of you ever have a garage sale, call me up! See how helpful I am. But you must provide a 6 pack of Corona in order for me to be useful. It's mandatory.
