Let 'er rip

Ok, so you know that cartoon where two guys are moving big, heavy pieces of furniture off of the truck using a ramp? And the one guy on the lower part of the ramp who is holding back the weight of the furniture says to the guy on the truck, "ok, you can let it go", meaning, "give me a little bit of the weight", and the guy on the truck says, "ok, you asked for it!"? And then the big piece of furniture slides down the ramp with the unfortunate guy (who really did ask for it) in front of it, and they both crash land at the bottom of the ramp in a heap of sticks, boxes, and bones? Yeah, that happened. Except for that last crashing part. And it was all in Spanish.

We were at our storage facility in Jax, and we had to get my bar (yes, The Bar, the antique cigar display case from the 1920's that I luuuuuuurve and protect against damage with all my might) off of the back of our 24-foot moving truck in order to offload the rest of our crap. We had been smart enough to hire some labor in Miami to help load the truck, but when we arrived in Jax, it was just us two. So I was at the top of the ramp, and my other half (O.H.) was halfway down, pushing up so the bar didn't go flying down the ramp. I was holding the bar back, crouching down because it was really awkward and there was no good way to grip it. I was just about at that point that it was going to slip out of my grip when he said, "Sueltalo!" Which means, "Let it go!". So, I did. Apparently that was the WRONG thing to do, and I learned some very interesting Spanish words immediately after letting go of the bar. Which went flying down the ramp in rapid pursuit of my shocked (and awed) husband. Luckily, I apparently married Superman (albeit a very angry, Spanish-speaking[swearing] Superman), because he somehow managed to stop the runaway bar before it smashed into bits and/or crushed him. It's quite possible that it was the force of the swear words coming out of his mouth that stopped the bar.

Needless to say, we had a 'moment', that one where every marriage is tested. He shoots me a stinkeye look that says, "WOMAN, what the HELL is wrong with you, letting go of that bar like that?" And is met by my raised eyebrows that say, "ummm, you TOLD me to, Einstein." And just like that, the moment is over. For once, he cannot argue my logic. He DID tell me to let it go. What he didn't do is realize that I can't read his mind (I keep telling him, the letters are just too small), and know that he meant, "let it go JUST A LITTLE BIT". So ultimately, it was his goof that caused the debacle. Although I will acquiesce I should've been smart enough to second guess him and say, "really? Let it go? Completely?" Which I shall do from now on.

As a matter of fact, I'm going to second-guess everything he says now. That way I can't be blamed when he asks for something and I give it to him and he hurts himself.

O.H.: Pass me that steak knife, please.

me: Are you sure?

O.H. Yes, this steak is like shoe leather, and I'm not going to gnaw through it like a dog.

me: Only if you're really sure.

O.H. I'm sure.

me: Ok, but remember the bar incident...

O.H. (mutters various swear words in Spanish, begins gnawing on steak like a dog)

So this should be fun from now on.

Despite that very rough start, the rest of the unloading went very well and the two of us managed to pack that storage unit full by 8:00 pm. Without getting smooshed under any household items.

We still don't have a closing date, although we did the walk-through of the house today before returning to Miami. It was nice to see the place (almost) empty and (almost) free of 80's paraphernalia (gold light fixtures, gold-embellished ceiling fans, gold faucets...what, did Midas live here or something?).

So we still have about 20% of our stuff in Miami, and will need to schlep it up there sometime before Tuesday the 27th when our lease runs out. We also need to move a motorcycle, my car, and my old hooptie truck. Oh yeah, and 4 cats. Piece of cake.

Although we did have a nice ride from Jax to Miami today; the girl at the rental counter threatened to give me a PT Cruiser and I threatened to throw a temper tantrum right there in the airport. So she offered me a $20 upgrade to a Sebring convertible. Sweeeet! (She was actually very nice, no threatening involved. But a PT Cruiser? That's a threat no matter how nicely you offer it.) But convertibles should come with a bottle of sunscreen. Seriously. For idiots like me, who kid themselves that they can outrun a sunburn if they go fast enough.

Newsflash: you can't. I now most closely resemble a lobster, post-boil. AND I ALREADY PACKED MY DAMN ALOE. *sigh*. I can't complain...if this is the cost of escaping Miami, I shall happily pay it. As long as the sun doesn't do another cancer dance all over my shoulders, face, and neck, that is.