Some days it’s about the heavy lifting.
Guys and chicks are not the same. Argue all you like but girls rarely belch the alphabet and guys generally don’t wear thongs, regardless of worries over panty lines.
Hauling the Christmas tree from the garage and a new license plate bring it home.
I jostle and lift and drop the tree five hundred and three times on the journey from garage to elevator to condo to upright position. I fashion a cat leash with a large hook. There is no rope to be found–make do. The leash handle is looped through the hook, twisted into the wall. The fabric leash remainder is wrapped about the tree. I’ve shoved the tree so deep in the corner it’s no longer steady and my arm strength defies righting the center post. Tommy Bahama, skittish tabby, may, on any given Sunday, lunge at an ornament toppling the whole damn thing. Leash and hook.
Creative girls always have garland, so exposed leash is encased in holiday merriment. You wouldn’t really notice. And if you did, your good manners would keep you from commentary, correct?
During the heavy lifting, I curse The Norwegian. Every once in a while I hate the guy. How dare you leave lifting to me and my pathetic pipes. Their strength level has always hovered around the weight of an overfull martini glass. Pfft
I curse him again as I get a new license plate. I didn’t take the toolbox after death. I sent it along with Oldest Chicken who drooled over the collection. Boys and girls–Am I right? Instead, I purchased the cutest tiny hammer with a secret twist off end housing a screwdriver. It’s leopard print. Super cute, right? It’s not a Phillips-head. Why the hell do I even know that? Because I don’t have a husband. On the days I settle into a Netflix or Real Housewives marathon, I convince myself I’m glad. No one touches the remote or comments on trashy television.
But on the days I have to unscrew a license plate the dealer guy used a buzzy screwdriver to put on–not so much. I’m in the communal garage under the building, flannel pj pants with dancing polar bears. But a regular shirt; I’m not a slob. Realize there is no Phillips-head. Back upstairs, a search of 4,238 drawers reveals a tiny Phillips-head amongst the batteries and cords to nothing.
Communal garage floor. Phillips-head is a too small. I press harder. Slips from my hand, gouging my palm. Cuss word. I stand up for leverage. No budge. I can hear the dealer guy’s buzzy screwdriver and I curse him and his mother. I insert the smaller Phillips-head into the shaft of the leopard hammer. With my weight behind me, I get enough of a budge to send me back to my ass on the concrete. I will not frustration cry.
Ten or so more tries and the dealer plastic plate comes off. Same process to get the new plate on. Realize once it’s on, the registration sticker is in the wrong corner despite the clearly marked square where it belongs. It does not peel. I’m not risking a fingernail to make it right. My hands are already garage floor dirty.
Gather my girly tools and mutter, “I can’t believe you did this to me you Asshat.”
“Sorry.” It’s my neighbor with the adorable red Triumph TRX housed in the spot next to mine. No makeup, flannel pj pants, dirty hands and I’ve just cussed out my dead husband. I shrug and laugh.
He says, “Happy Holidays.”
I smile and wave as if I’m not the Garage Grinch, “You too.”
No matter. His car may be cute but his license plate holder screams, “The Ohio State University.” So do we really care what he thinks?