If I had balls (literally…metaphorically I’m well-equipped), I would be able to state the following idiom tonight: I was sweatin’ my balls off while grilling out.
In an effort to eat as much protein as humanly possible before the 20th, I bought enough chicken to make Colonel Sanders look silly. If you ask me, the only proper way to eat chicken is doused in Sweet Baby Ray’s and charred black and grill-striped.
Grilling is not my strong-suit, mind you. I have discovered and embraced a myriad of household deficiencies over the past 16 months. Weeds. Stupid they need pulled so often. Gutters. Someone really should invent an automated mechanism which sends the crud out along with the water. TV. Who cares.
How hard can it be to operate a grill? I can start it just fine. Turn the nozzle on the tank to the Open position as the helpful arrows indicate. Check. Lift the cover. Check. Turn on all four burners. Got it. Hit ignite. Flames. Good. Close the cover to let it get all nice and hot. I even remembered to clean it first, scraping off the remnants from the Fresh Market burgers I grilled the other night.
The problem I faced with the plump and juicy BBQ breasts was the doneness. They looked Cooking Light worthy from the outside, so I smugly took another sip of my Riesling and looked around at the insane amounts of green in my backyard. I felt like a true manly-man for a brief second – sans the wine, I think a Growler is the dude thing to drink before spatting over a shoulder. Just as I was about to tong them on over to a fresh plate, I simultaneously noticed a bee hive under the deck railing and the pink inside the centers. Great. Like I need an Epipen injection or salmonella poisoning 17 days before my face becomes splotchy enough and my stomach explodes all on its own.
I cannot seem to figure out which way to turn those ADA compliant dials to make the flames become hotter. I know…I know, you’d think all you would need to do is turn one all the way to the right or left and visually inspect the flames underneath to see if they shoot up any higher. No luck. And I was too hungry to attempt any further troubleshooting. So I just stood there patiently, deciding what kind of pizza I’m ordering tomorrow night.
All this – and last week after I broke some pottery Liv made me when she was little, I had no choice but to march into Lowe’s and purchase some JB Weld.
I’m wearing heels tomorrow. Begrudgingly.
