Something About Windmills
Okay, let me explain myself. My dearest one was probably hoping for a guy that could at least wire a lamp. I told her way before we took the vows that I am not mechanically inclined. What did she say? “No problem, Stan, our love will keep us together, not epoxy glue.” She was right. Our love and marriage remain unharmed. Yet, each night she kisses me on the forehead and says something like, “Oh well, I love you more than windmills.” You tell me?
Tonight was particular proof of my ineptness towards the practical side of life. We have decided to move into a smaller home and sell our big Victorian. I decided to move our dishwasher by myself. I’m strong for my age, right? Oh boy. I managed to get it out of our old house. Not a scratch I tell you, not a scratch. I rolled it up the homemade ramp I had just built (that ought to tell you something) and onto the bed of my little truck. Hey! This little chubby quixotic flop did great. Wow.
I pulled proudly in front of our new little cottage (new for us), opened the tailgate, put my little raggedy ramp down, tightened my slipknots(self-taught by accident) holding the dishwasher onto the dolly, and began my trip into the inferno. I held tightly to the dolly. It’s coming down smoothly and then, and then…move over Don. Not only did our dishwasher lose its way off my wooden ramp, but also the clinking sound inside made me realize there were still dishes in it. Oh boy. Our new neighbors were watching from their windows. I couldn't tell, but I'm sure they were smirking uncontrollably. I was sweating.
Tonight, I lost six or seven hundred dollars just trying to be the Incredible Hulk, I now have neighbors who would be correct in calling me an idiot, and later on my wife will kiss me on the forehead and whisper something about windmills.
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