Once upon a time when my parents were young, they moved to a new place. This is when they lived in Dallas, I believe. Their friends, another nice couple, joined them to help with the terror that is moving. It had been a long day, and the finish line was in sight.
They had rented a truck, so the guys used that and the gals used another vehicle. To Mom, it felt like she and her girlfriend had made more trips back and forth than the fellas, but, you know, it’s different stuff, maybe the men were getting heavier, more difficult items, etc., so she wanted to give the benefit of the doubt.
Mom and her friend delivered their last load to the new house, and returned to the old place to do a final walk-through and then hit the cleaning (this might be the worst part of moving–you just want to be DONE!). The guys must’ve been somewhere en route, but Mom was sure that Dad said they would head back to join in on the cleaning after they dropped their load of stuff at the new place.
Mom and her friend worked and worked; the guys didn’t show up; they wondered if the guys had gotten lost or hurt or arrested or something. Finally, they finished the cleaning, no thanks to Dad and his friend, and hopped in the car to head to the new house (no doubt eyes peeled on the way, waiting to see the boys stranded with a flat tire).
I’d like to state at this time that Mom and Dad should have been using cell phones. Problem solved.
So, Mom and her friend pull up to the new house, where they find boxes and boxes sitting out in the yard. On two of the boxes sit Dad and his friend, relaxing, sipping beer. Dad says, “Where in the world have you been? We needed you here to tell us where all this stuff goes!”
Mom wordlessly walks up to Dad, takes his beer, pours it on his head, goes inside.
I’d like to state at this time that I can visualize the look that was likely on Mom’s face, even though I wasn’t even a twinkle in her eye at this point. Sometimes I make that look myself.
Obviously, this is told from Mom’s point of view. I’ll have to ask Dad to weigh in, if he even recalls the incident. Mom also says that as soon as she did it, she felt bad and thought, well, that was a stupid thing to do. I don’t really blame her though.
The other item that proves that the story must be mostly true, is that my gentle, peace-loving father went in the house a couple minutes later and asked Mom, “So, are you going to tell us where to put all these boxes?”