| Graaah |
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| 05:37pm 28/03/2009 |
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Been cleaning out the garage today which, as always, is an interesting mix of Stuff I Didn't Know We Had and Spiders the Size of My Face.
Took a break in the middle to go check out free furniture on Mom's insistence, even though I have no idea how I'd get it into the truck on my own. Since I was thirsty and had a couple bucks, I decided to go to the store while I was out, and since Gillian was wagging her tail near me, I thought I'd take her along too.
Now Gillian is pretty used to vaulting into our newer Nissan truck, but today I was driving The Hammer, so called because it is not just a truck, it is a TRUCK. It is a man's truck-- a man's man's truck. It is huge and green because if it were red, it would cause testosterone levels to leap dangerously in the driver, causing him or her to sprout hair in strange places and go "HRUGH!" a lot. Women swoon and men weep as it rumbles past. It is the master of all it surveys.
It's also pretty high up off the ground, even with the little iron step on the side, so Gillian-- who has a bad back-- had a hard time climbing up into it. She slipped twice, hit her head once, and gave me The Eyes until I gave her a boost into the passenger's seat. After that, she seemed pretty happy, since usually she has to ride in the back. I rolled down the window for her and backed out of the driveway, looking forward to some ice cold aspartame refreshment.
Gillian leaned her head out the window as we cruised along, happy as only a dog drooling in the wind can be. She stayed safely in the cab until she smelled something too good to pass up and decided to hoist her entire upper body out the window.
"BAAAGH," I said, and grabbed onto Gillian's tail, hauling on it in an attempt to both keep the dog from falling into oblivion, but also to subtly imply that leaping out of a moving vehicle after a deer was Frowned Upon. Gillian was undeterred, and I discovered to my dismay that although I can roll the passenger's side window down from the main controls, it refused to go back up when I jiggled the switch and went "BAAAGH" again.
(The Hammer is a man's truck, but it's also almost fifteen years old, and been through a lot. The Check Engine, Antilock Brake, and E-Brake lights are permanent fixtures on the dashboard. The only thing that works decently is the CD player, which was installed by the previous owner, who ignored the problems with the steering, breaks, transmission, turn signals, air conditioning, windows, and upholstery in favor of a better sound system, because he was a Teenager and he had Priorities.)
At this point, I had one hand around the dog's tail and the other on the steering wheel of a truck that is prone to trying to kill innocent motorists on its best days. I pulled over to the side of the road, got out, went around to the passenger's side, opened the door, pushed Gillian back as she said Hi Hi Hi, and rolled the window up to a safer height.
I waved apologetically at the motorists waiting behind me (even by the side of the road, The Hammer is a little too big to pass safely) and set off again. I kept a wary eye on Gillian, wondering if she'd try to squeeze her fat yellow body through the narrow opening if she smelled something interesting enough.
Gillian, unsatisfied with just putting her nose out the window, stood on the arm rest, toes splayed, to give her entire head some air. In doing so, she stepped on the switch for the power window, causing it to leap upward and almost decapitate her.
"BAAAAGH OH MY GODDDDD," I remarked, swerving into the store's parking lot as Gillian managed to free her head from the window's clutches. "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY?? OH MY GOD!!"
Gillian slicked my face with drool, her doggy way of saying 'Yes, I'm fine, can we go Walkies now?'
I couldn't leave her in the car now that I'd seen her have a brush with death once. I took her out by her leash and looked for a good place to tie her up, trying to steer away from parking spaces while I imagined her slipping her collar and running around on the deadly highway, just a helpless naked dog saying Hi Hi to speeding cars. I finally found a decent spot (hauling on her leash to keep her from shedding and/or urinating on passers-by) and lashed her to a post, babbling to her that I'd be right back, not to worry, and for god's sake DON'T GO ANYWHERE.
When I returned five minutes later bearing Diet Pepsi, the Fuel of the Gods, she was wrapped around the post looking sheepish.
I unwound her leash, took her back to the truck, gave her a boost in (to the amusement of the Good Ol' Boy watching us), gave her a stern lecture about not killing oneself while going Bye Byes, and drove her home. Neither of us have ever been happier to get the hell out of that truck and back into the house.
Garage isn't even done -_- people keep stopping by to ask me if we're having a garage sale. I offered Don's Giant Desk to our next door neighbor if she could move it, but she politely declined. Bugh.
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| Cinderelly Cinderelly |
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| 07:02pm 28/03/2009 |
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Even though I nearly gave myself a hernia moving Don's Giant Desk (which I, er, may have done irreparable damage to while dragging it across the driveway-- how was I to know trying to use the car jack on it would splinter the bottom? Ah-heh...), and I may or may not have accidentally broken the garage door, it's still kind of relaxing to be able to clean the garage without Mom's 'help.'
"No! Don't throw that away, that's the W from X!"
"That's a perfectly good Y, we could use that!"
"Aagh, that's my antique Z, don't touch it!!"
She never cares to explain, though, why any of these valuable items have been sitting in the damp, dusty, giant cave-dwelling insect-infested garage for three years.
I'm not stupid. I know what I need to keep when I see it. I don't touch papers with people's names on them; I don't touch old toys unless told otherwise; things still in the shrink wrap are kept for consideration; all books go in a general Book Box to be salvaged or given away (usually the latter). But the ten year old dusty coffee maker? Gone. The full legal pad buckled with water and god knows what else? Trash. The wire can-holder that we "should" have all the pieces to? Adios.
I'd suggest we have a garage sale if I thought anybody would buy our old, water-damaged junk. Maybe a "Free Face-Eating Spider With Every Purchase" sign would help.
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