BOOOOOOOOO!

My friend has a grill that has been through a lot.

Its wheels have fallen off, it endured an accidental grease fire last year during a pork roast fiasco, it went up against the plow driver during the winter, it survived being buried in a snowbank, and it persevered through a move to a new town.

Today my friend and I go to Home Depot to get pavers to steady the grill. After that, we stop at the butcher shop for some marinated meat, then  proceed to the hardware store for a propane tank refill. After steadying the grill to near-perfection, we open the grill to start cleaning the grates for the new season. Within minutes, we are grilling (well, my friend is grilling) lemon-pepper chicken, marinated steak tips, and some marinated asparagus.

At some point during the grilling part of the adventure, my friend leaves the grill top open so she can turn the meat. This is when I see “the face.”

That’s right. There’s a face looking back at us from the grill.

Apparently, the Ghost of Barbecues Past lives in my friend’s gas grill, complete with eyes and a mouth and a semi-visible body.

Yup. While most people worry about too-rare meat “mooing” from the grill rack, we get to worry about “booing” from this grill rack.

No need to worry, though: the meal is heavenly.

Perhaps the grill is not haunted by the Ghost of Barbecues Past but is rather protected by the Spirit of Barbecues Yet to Come. Either way, it scared the Dickens out of us.

SPRING! WAIT . . .

 April: you fickle and wonderful month.

 

Just the other day it was seventy degrees,

Hot enough for sweat and heat prostration

Due to winter transitioning  to summer with zero stops.

 

But, oh, you silly witch, April.

You’re not done with us yet.

 

New England is in its psychotic time of year:

Heat in the morning while scraping frost from windshields;

Air conditioning in the afternoon while riding with car windows down.

 

(Don’t judge us; it’s why you get sick from extreme temperature fluctuations and we don’t.)

 

Mere minutes after we have declared Spring to be sprung,

After seeding our lawns,

After setting plants on porches and patios,

After starting Spring sports season,

After declaring barbecue season officially open,

 

It snows.

 

Don’t shake your heads nor wag your fingers nor call us crazy.

We are prepared.

 

The snow blowers are still in garages,

The ice melt containers are still next to doors,

The gloves and hats and scarves and parkas are still in closets,

The shovels are still handy.

 

We may be foolhardy,

But we are not foolish.

Spring may be on the calendar,

But winter is on the ground once again.

For now.

 

Tomorrow it will be beach weather.

It’s how Mother Nature keeps New England sane.

KARMA SPRINGS

 I have moved to a new apartment. Well, it’s not “new,” officially. It’s new to me. I hadn’t seen it before I agreed to move here, but I am glad that I signed the lease. So far (one week in), so smooth.

The move out was also smooth except for karma.

First of all, I built a bed frame (from a kit – I’m not a complete idiot). I was determined not to take it apart, but that determination got me wedged into the doorway and hall. That’s right. Wedged. Like a clog in a drain. After multiple attempts to jimmy myself and the frame through, and after a whole bunch of “Fuck you, motherfucker, fuck you!” mantras, I made it down the stairs with that bad boy and the bed frame made its way to my new place relatively unscathed.

Secondly, there was the spider. The old place has some . . . issues. And by issues, I mean mice and spiders and stink bugs. Every night I had to check the walls and ceilings for spiders and bugs so I didn’t eat any while sleeping. That last morning before the movers arrived, I was peeing like most normal people do, and when I glanced up I spotted . . . a spider. Of course I was mid-pee, so I had to keep my eye on that bastard until I could finish my business. Then, I had to grab the broom because the ceilings in that townhouse were tall. Very tall. And I am not. That damn spider, though, taunted me like the final arachnid insult.

But the best thing that happened was the closet pull. Yes, you read that correctly. The pull cord on the light bulb for one of the closets. This particular closet pull is . . . was . . . long, almost to the floor, and I got caught on it frequently while I lived there. As I was packing to move, I pulled my clothes out of the closet,  and the damn pull cord kept getting caught between the clothes, on the hangers, tangled into my arms. Finally, I had enough and just kept walking. I figured I’d take that string right out of the socket and screw the next tenant.

Instead, the closet pull string stretched and stretched and stretched – then let go from the clothes, springing backward, bouncing off the back wall of the closet, then careening at my face while breaking the land speed record. Before I even had a chance to swear, the little metal knob at the end of the cord punched me right in the face, leaving a huge mark above my lip and drawing some blood.

I suppose I should say now that I am thankful it didn’t take out my eye. However, I assured myself and future tenants that it will never happen again. I grabbed the nearest pair of scissors and cut that motherfucker right off at the quick, tossing the string and its dangling weaponry into the trash.

Karma may be a bitch, but I’m an asshole. Besides, I’m out of the old place. Let karma do its thing just so long as it doesn’t follow me here to the new digs.

IT AIN'T OVER 'TIL IT'S OVER

 At the time of writing this, I have not moved yet, but at the time this will be published, I will be in and waiting for the cable guy to show up (which is why I am putting this in the queue ahead of time). I am actually moving into an apartment I have NEVER SEEN.

You read that correctly. I have never seen the apartment into which I am moving.

Oh, sure, I saw a facsimile when I toured the available apartment. But I did not want to be on the first floor. The apartment was fine, the right size and all, but just too … not me. I’d have the rain beating down on the concrete patio and the lights from cars shining directly into my bedroom.  You know, things that annoy me already.

Nope, this apartment is on the second floor, with a porch, plus a dining room, and a gas fireplace. At least, that’s what I am signed up for on paper. However, the model apartment I toured had no dining room and no fireplace. Oh, it had a lovely bay window, but I’d rather have the fireplace, and I’d rather be off the bottom floor but not on the top floor.

So, folks, you may get a raving blog from me next week saying that I am taking the thirty-day guarantee and high-tailing it out of here. Or, you may hear me say, “God bless the cable person for coming out on Easter Sunday to make sure that I don’t miss a single episode of Wicked Tuna here in this new place.”

Either way, I am flying blind and doing something out of character even for me: I’m moving into the abyss and hoping it’s not too crazy a maneuver.

Who am I kidding? This is totally in character for me. This is the kind of spontaneous stuff I do, like buying a manual transmission car without ever having actually driven one (trained as a passenger but never a driver) then driving it straight through the middle of the city of Lawrence, Massachusetts, figuring if I stall out there, I deserve whatever fate the questionable neighborhoods would deal to me. (I never stalled it – not even once.)

Wish me luck! If the Fates smile on me, I’ll post pictures. Knowing me, I’ll post pictures even if the Fates crap all over me.