We have been wrestling with the damn bender (doing what, Ro? bending, duh) and the fucking thing scoots all over the shop unless both The Chef and I stand on it whilst
So we all trek on over to the Mennonite junkyard (what? yeah, you heard me. It's not like the Amish can run a junkyard can they? Pitchforks don't make good forklifts) where we happily run through enormous piles of indescribable debris: transformers, ship pulleys, old cranes, tractors, silo caps, gas pipe, prehistoric circuit boards, and murder weapons for every whodunit ever written, it's here. A couple hundred pounds later, we return with um, let us generously call them "parts," which when welded together by WelderMan, make a pretty sweet stand.
So now the bender's got this sweet fancy stand, and the fucker still walks all over the shop. Dammit! Ok, we're not defeated! We'll just drag (and by 'we', I mean
Maybe a rubber mat, I theorize. Maybe bolting it to the effing floor,
Rubber mat sticks perfectly to the floor. Bender scoots like grease across it. Fuck. Glue the bender to the mat. Bender sticks perfectly to the mat, now slides slicker than snot across the floor. Fuck.
Ok,
We sure would have felt a lot more like responsible grownups had The Chef not chosen that particular moment to come home. Two exhausted filthy loons hopped up on caffeine drilling random unexplained holes in the concrete floor (uh, you see, the first ones, we hit rocks in the aggregate, that's no good, we had to move over one or two inches, really Chef, it's not as bad as it looks, and all I can think of is the Matt Groening cartoon "Never Drink and Drill") does not convey Trust Us, We're Professionals And We Know What We're Doing. Especially when there is a large pile of junkyard weldings glued to rubber bits in the center of the garage with iron bar sticking out of it at random intervals. "Uh, this is my sculpture entry entitled Rage Against the Cement. It's a postmodern work incorporating cultural values since the industrial revolution and the ambivalence of the modern consumer and the paranoia of the American homeowner...."
She said, "Uh, what are you doing?" and upon receiving the answer, did say "Ok," but not in the tone one would have said, "Oh darling, you bought me roses!" Actually, for someone who just got their garage drilled up, she was pretty cool. I guess she has to be, considering that this is pretty much standard practice in the house. Rats in the fridge, outsider art in the garage, if one of us isn't wiring something to something else, we're hammering it, breeding it, melting it, painting it, welding it, polishing it, cooking it, programming it, garbing it, embroidering it, enameling it, or making it a hat -- brass, felt, or tinfoil.
Just ask the cat.