JT said I could borrow his tables. Eight foot banquet tables that I thought were plastic.
They were not.
They were mostly steel and partially osmium I think. They were also covered in plywood and then in particle board and then encased in cement, probably.
Since I thought they were plastic? I took one guy to help me move them. One old guy to be more clear. One old guy that we have since discovered is using a mere 30% of his lung capacity. No shit.
So... I arrive to pick up Old Guy at ten, a full hour late and we speed to the storage unit, thinking this would take us just a few moments and then I could be on time to help my mom set up for my daughter's birthday party.
Since I have obviously pissed Karma off in some major way, the storage company has decided that this is the perfect time to seal the blacktop on their parking lot, making it impossible to drive to the unit. Instead, the owner tells me that I can park by the road, walk to the unit, carry the tables and forty chairs across the yard and LIFT THEM ALL OVER THE FENCE.
Still thinking that they were plastic, I agreed.
This is where Krissy's absurdity becomes Krissy's stupidity.
We open the unit, lift a single table out and carry it as far as across the little street to the grass before setting it down and declaring our ineptness in the table carrying department.
A lightbulb positively explodes in the air over my head and I decide to go and recruit more man-help. D and T agree to help, seem eager even to assist. They are maybe winking at each other and calling me a wuss telepathically. I do not mind becuase they are unaware of the osmium filling inside of the steel/cement/plywood/particle board/ heavier than shit/and in no way should be mistaken as an actual table/ tables. They can laugh now.
While I was recruiting man-help, Old Guy has been unloading chairs from the storage unit and piling them by the single table we managed to remove from the unit. By the time we get back, he is sitting on a four-wheeler thingy with the owner of the place, catching his breath with a cigarette.
T and D spend a ridiculously small amount of time securing the tables in the truck and piling folding chairs on top of them.
This seems sensible until we realize that the tailgate will not close. A bungee cord is magically produced, probably from the truck but maybe from one of our asses. It doesn't actually do anything to secure the load, but it makes us feel more secure.
T has to drive because he is 8 feet tall (approximately). D rides shotgun and Old Guy folds himself up in the middle seat, looking mostly like a midget between T and D... who are mostly giants... compared to me anyway.
In my hurry to secure man-help, I forgot that the truck only seats three people. So, I tuck myself under the dash and cuddle up with D's knee and tennis shoes. We are probably bonding right about now.
We are taking backroads, in an effort to not hit anyone with a random steel chair on the highway. It's sensible, but I am so late. My mom is going to kill me. Apparently, one never really outgrows fear of the mother.
I mention this aloud, and declare that I am all kinds of wound up now.
D ponders. He decides that I should tell my mom that I was going so damn fast that I couldn't catch up to me and that's why I am late.
T proclaims with all of the gusto one would expect in such a situation, "GREAT SCOTT!!!"
Old Guy looks scared and T giggles.
"Holy Shit! Something about a flux copasitor." Which I assume to be a reference to Back to the Future... but again it's hard to tell with that guy.
It is about this time that two of the chairs fly out of the back of the truck. We debate not stopping, but then, since we didn't hit anyone with the chairs, we stop to get them.
D thinks that right now would be a perfect time to rob a bank. Since I must look confused D explains that we are now bullet proof, at least from the back because we have a shit ton of steel back there.
I tell them I would love to rob a bank with them, unfortunately, my mother is absolutely going to murder me if I am any later than I already am.
T makes the observation that in the event of a fire fight at the benefit that we are borrowing the tables for, he will simply flip the table and hide behind it.
I wonder if I would be able to flip the table. Probably not. Now, my mom is going to kill me and I am probably also going to die in the event of a fire fight under one of these tables.
Karma hates me.