Our Memorial Day

Some friends on my Facebook page have been hankering for details since I posted a summary of our Memorial Day cookout. So here's the entire silly story.

See the photo? That's all there is of our backyard. One little strip of grass (which functions as a pup potty), and the pool. That black, shrouded thing over in the right corner is our grill.

Well, I got up early on Memorial Day and started in with my to-do list. I did laundry, then I went outside and ripped up the plastic drains that run along the edge of the pool pavers--the installers of said pavers had filled the drains with sand when they put the pavers in, and drainage has not been, er, optimal. Especially since Babe has decided that she'd rather pee on the porch than walk ten yards to the strip of grass.

So I ripped, and scraped out dirt, and hauled, and swept. I did touch-up painting. I cleaned windows, scooped poop, and emptied the trash cans. And when every chore on my list had been checked off, I curled up with the book I've been dying to finish.

Hubby comes in and asks if I want to grill burgers. Sure, it's a tradition, and I'm liking the idea of him doing the cooking. He likes his grill. And I'm exhausted.

So he goes to the grocery store, gets hamburgers and all the fixings, and comes home. Goes outside with the dogs while I curl up in an oversized chair and read.

A little while later, he comes in the house, sopping wet. Informs me that the grill isn't behaving properly, and he's fallen in the pool--twice--while attempting to light it. (As you can see, there's not a lot of work space in that corner.) Apparently he misjudged his footing and simply stepped backward into the pool. On the first fall, he drowned our butane lighter. On the second fall, he barely avoided baptizing our box of matches.

I'm not surprised at this turn of events, as he once volunteered to help a man install an air handler in our attic. During the installation, hubby stepped backward in the attic and fell through the ceiling, landing on our front porch. After that, I make sure he's not home whenever installers come to the house. The man is a dear, but he's also accident-prone.

I go outside and try to help him with the grill, but the grill is his baby and I don't know how to do anything with it. Plus, I'm a little afraid he's going to blow us both up, so I step away and go back inside to my book.

Hubby comes in and asks if he should cook the burgers inside the house. I nod; that's fine. He pops in a moment later with a crepe pan in his hand. "Do I use this?"

"No," I tell him, "use the frying pan. It's bigger."

Soon I hear the happy sounds of sizzling from the kitchen. After a decent interval, I put down my book and go to check things out, only to find that he has fried half a dozen burgers . . . in my wok.

Well, I give him an A for effort. Now, if only he will fix the grill . . . We may want to use it on the Fourth of July.

~~Angie