What better way to celebrate my newfound independence than to acquire that ultimate symbol of suburban manhood?
The barbecue grill.
I whizzed past the hardware store’s selection of gas “girly grills” – kitchen ranges dressed up in outdoor clothing. I wanted a real grill – one that required charcoal and a big lighter that shot flame from its nozzle. I wanted a grill that would give me that sizzling feeling in my groin, letting me know that in my backyard I was “da man.”
I chose a big black Weber kettle with a gas ignition, shelf and charcoal bin. The ultimate charcoal grill! Already I felt my testosterone level rise. Hmmm – were those newly sprouted hairs poking through the lace of my bra? Was that a stirring in the front of my granny panties? I paused and took in the moment as I felt a grunt rising from my chest.
So, there I was on the patio with my tools and this ginormous box. If I was to be the man, damn it I was going to assemble my own friggin’ grill. None of that sissy delivery crap for me! Thank goodness the guys at the store put it in the back seat of my car so I wouldn’t break my freshly manicured nails.
Did it have to have so many pieces? And all those nuts and bolts and screws and washers and thingies whose names I don’t know – surely they gave me a few dozen spares? Couldn’t they have done a partial assembly? Darn! Those instructions weren’t even in real English! Oh wait. I was “da man.” We don’t ask for directions and we don’t need no stinkin’ instructions. I could handle it.
Nearly four hours later my masterpiece was finished! Labor Day was fast approaching and I wanted to have my mom and a few friends over for my virgin I-am-woman barbecue. But first, I figured, I needed to test my new toy. A beautifully marbled ribeye volunteered to be sacrificed.
I piled the briquettes into a pyramid in the center of the rack. Then I fired up my torch, pushed the gas ignition button and – POP! – my creation exploded to life! Let there be ‘cue! My very ample backside bounced to an end zone dance that would have made a Steeler want to be me.
As the tiny blossom of a flame grew to a roaring blaze, I tossed in my marriage certificate, wedding photos and all of my exiled-soon-to-be-history husband’s crap.
Damn! That steak was good!