The stages of death for the Grill Box.

At 1:25 pm, Mr. Husband made a beer run. We must have beer for Grill Sunday, a major detail we accidentally overlooked. Mr. Husband made the trek to Jefferson County (about five minutes down Hwy 280) to locate a kindly beer vendor that sells beer on Sundays in Alabama. He promptly arrived home at 1:50 pm and surveyed my garage-cleaning work. My work was approved, but the laying of the boxes for parts proved tricky. Mr. Husband tripped over the boxes several times. Expletives rained down from the Giant’s mouth. The boxes were kicked to the side of the garage but still served good for the laying of the parts.

Beer was placed carefully into the fridge in order to chill it further. Glasses placed into the freezer in order to freeze them for icy beer. The garage was our next destination: mission get-grill-out-of-box began at 2:00 pm.

First order of the day, remove grill from its carefully packed and helpful location on the right side of the garage. Oh, how I will miss hitting the grill box with my driver’s side door every time I attempt to exit the Beetle. Oh, how I will miss the snap-back that crunches my left protruding leg or smashes my head when I try to exit the Beetle and the grill box tries to foil my plan.
No exit strategy has been complete in these past nine months without attempting to out-think the carefully planted grill box. Curses! I’ll miss it in some annoying way. Like ear wax. Just like I miss ear wax once it’s been ejected from my ear. Yes. Just like that.

At 2:.05 pm, the first cut was made into the grill box. We heard her scream. We heard her protest and bargain. All the stages of death were laid out before us as the grill box tried in vain to alter our plan. No therapy for our grill box—only finality. Snap! Zip! Rip! The grill box was open and Styrofoam and plastic burst to life. Box after box was birthed before us as the grill box in her final stage of death vomited her internal organs all over the garage floor. More tape. More plastic wrap. Everything wrapped up with an imaginary bow. We pulled out her tiny little pieces, enjoying every bit of it. I believe we were singing though we didn’t realize it. It was a happy moment and our garage ate up every little bit.

I opened the smaller boxes, producing parts and bits and more parts. I unwrapped and put on display the tiny metal works that will soon come together to make our grill a grill. We needed you box. We needed you at one time. Your time is done. It is over. You are being gutted like a pig. The pieces never stopped. They kept on coming. One piece after another—none of them making sense. Oh, the chaos that burst forth from that dreadful grill box!

And, then, the head. She had semblance of meaning. She had easily recognizable shape. We know that grill. We know her. She is the one we have dreamt about for so long. And, then, Mr. Husband carefully reaches in, caressing her stainless exterior, lifting her to life. She comes easily after the grill box lets go of her death grip. It was a fight, but Mr. Husband won. She looked heavier than she was—she was gentle when once removed from the evil grill box. She came willingly.

And so all the parts were splayed out about us. A cacophony of metal, screaming to be assembled. One last important part: the manual. Mr. Husband picked up the manual among the parts, ready to read to all of us … and then we see it. A clearly indicated “Stop.” Clear. Precise. To the point. Full. Stop. This must mean beer.

Time for a beer break.