Labour Day Weekend

Ouch! There's that 'u' thingy again. On to today...

Since it's the last blast of summer before the return to school, regular hours and sobriety, here's to the start of the weekend. I cleaned the BBQ. I had to. My hubby loves to BBQ - he's the Chairman of the Grill (without the foreign words of anyones' uncle). He could fillet Bobby Flay. And I dare Guy Fierri to roll up in the Cami, Drive to our humble Semi in the 'burbs, Dine at our antique oak table by Diving into one of the man's steaks.

Feel free to thank the humble servant who spent two days blasting the grill plates. You see, I live at the end of that road to Hell which is paved with good intentions. Ever since last April when the man leans into the stretch of the upcoming weekend and I frantically rush to the fridge to scribble down the chores on the white board, I always write down his repetitive quote, "remind me to clean the BBQ grills." Being on the Virgo/Libra cusp, there exists in the man a streak of procrastination wider than my butt. Yet the weekends come and go and my burger, chop or steak is coated with an ever increasing layer of charred remains of the previous meal.

"I gotta clean that grill," he mumbles and picks off a fleck of cremated protein from his current crispy corpse. He looks over at my meal. "Just eat around the burnt part," he instructs. I sacrifice to the Cancer god and pray my gall bladder doesn't explode. "I'll clean it," I gently offer. To which he says, "no, hon. I said would do it and I will." He just never said when. So today, in 40+C humidity I took my pail, rubber gloves, scouring pads and mini-vac out to the deck to do battle.

As I scrubbed and scoured and pounded away at the blackened, cemented-on gunk, the right side of my brain turned on - as a writer's brain must do, or perish - and I likened myself to one of the many nameless Brit archaeologists patiently digging out a pre-Cambrian burial ground. The left side of my brain questioned the wisdom of wanting to be cremated at some time in the future. Back to the dig. Would some intrepid scholar exhume the few pounds of my powdery leftovers some centuries from now? What sorts of conclusions would the doctor scribble down after sifting through my ashes? I can just imagine him/her shaking their head in disgust and muttering, "too much red meat." Keen eyes scanning the screen on some 23rd microscope and raising a quizzical brow in amazement as my last meal is dissected and the state of my health at the time of my death is flashed up for all the learned colleagues to ponder. Red meat, chocolate, alcohol, dairy products and some kind of starch - no wonder this poor woman's heart exploded!

They may question my choice of sides but, hey, what's a good steak without a baked potato loaded up with sour cream and butter, a glass of wine and a piece of chocolate cake to finish off the day. It begs the question: do I want to die happy or hungry? I return to reality.

The BBQ is now de-charred and ready for the long weekend. Tonight I'll bake that chocolate cake which may very well kill me someday but I'm taking it to my Dad tomorrow to celebrate his birthday. He's managed to reach the middle-senior era of the 70's, despite the above mentioned lifetime diet. And the four heart attacks. God bless the Labour Day weekend. God bless my Dad. And above all - God bless the Canadian health system which allows me to consume cholesterol-lowering drugs.

Happy Labour Day Weekend.