It has been really hot here in Atlanta the last few days. Friday was 94, as was yesterday, and today is supposed to hit near 96 degrees. That said, doing anything outside requires planning, and even then assumes a bit of risk.
I took Friday off and scheduled an early-morning round of golf. I was partnered with a lovely retired couple who lived just down the street from me; which was kind of neat because the course we played was nearly 30 miles from our house. Small world.
After golf, I came home and worked outside in the heat for a couple of hours and despite drinking lots of fluids AND keeping my head wet, I still managed to get too hot and spent the next few hours feeling as if my head was stuffed with cotton and my body moving through cold molasses.
Having recovered, I kept the boys Saturday from 9-2 while my wife and her sisters and mom threw a baby shower for her sister who flew in from Oklahoma, and who just barely made it after her flight got canceled requiring her to drive to Dallas in order to catch the next flight that would get her here in time for the shower.
And THEN there was Saturday afternoon. My wife’s brother and his wife just bought a house and of course we all pitched in to help move, except as it always happens, at least half of those who said, “Oh absolutely, I’ll be there,” either don’t show at all, or show up after half the hard work was done. All told, there was probably 20 of us, but in truth there were only about 3 strong bodies. The “dads” were just too out of shape, or had torn ligaments or some such excuse…the women…well, can’t expect them to carry heavy stuff, so it came down to really three of us, and one didn’t show up until the “unload” leaving two of us carrying all the heavy stuff. Did I mention it was 94 outside?
The apartment was on the third level (or course), and also of course, the master BR and laundry room in the new house was upstairs as well and whoever designed this house, didn’t do it with “moving” in mind. Needless to say, by 8 p.m. when we finished, I was whooped.
And not that you expect it, but the only person to actually thank me for helping, was the wife. Not MY wife (“Thanks honey for helping my brother move”), not the wife’s parent’s, (“Thank you for saving our kids a ton of money on movers,”) not anyone but the wife.
I guess I’ve been part of the family for so long now that it’s just “assumed” you’ll help. But you know, it’s sad when you stop saying please and thank you…even when it’s your family.