It's the Bro-In-Law.
Last time he asked this question we wound up moving the beluga-like carcass of a claw-foot bath tub.
"Uhmmmm. Nothin'.
Whatcha got goin'?"
"I need help movin' a stove."
5PM is beginning to weigh heavy on my mind. And back.
"Okay. Sure.
Say, it's not one of those cast-iron woodstoves, is it?"
Laughing, he assures me it isn't and hangs up.
He picks me up at the Little-House-On-The-Corner a few minutes later.
Sister Here, the blushing bride of the B-I-L, knows this lady realtor who just sold a house to folks who didn't want the appliances.
We pull up to a nice house.
The garage door is open as is the door to the house.
A pickup is backed up to the garage, tailgate down.
We walk in to find the hubby of the lady realtor is already there, lying on the floor, disconnecting wires.
He's taking the dishwasher.
I begin to feel like this is the way looting is done in a polite society. Very civilized.
"After you've stolen what you want, be a dear and clean up after yourself. And please don't forget to close the door. Ta-ta."
We begin our looting, going after a nice gas stove and oven. 10 minutes later it's in the back of the truck.
No problem.
Piece of cake.
"We need to get the microwave, too."
The microwave is over the stove, one of those combo things with the stove fan.
Hey, we looted a stove.
How hard can this microwave thing be?
It's now 30 minutes later and we've managed to move it out about two inches and down about an inch or so.
It is sooooo stuck on the wall.
The Hubby, the B-I-L, and myself -the Village Idiot- have pushed, pried, prodded, and, on occasion, allllllmost profaned the accursed appliance.
Suddenly, I have an epiphany that just barely beats an apoplexy.
"Hey, call TechnoBoy and have him google the instructions."
The B-I-L tosses me his phone and I, along with ET, phone home.
Relaying the message to TechnoBoy, he googles the websites until he finds what we need.
"Okay. Remove the fan grill and pull on the support release."
We remove the fan grill, stopping to chase escaping screws rolling
under the counter, then stare blankly into the dark recesses of a microwave's bowels.
We are as lost as a 10th grade biology student told to find the frog's liver.
And we do the same thing the student does.
Probe this.
Push that.
Huh.
Five minutes later, I bark into the phone.
"Whaddawedoagain?!!!"
To TechnoBoy's credit, he remains calm and talks very slowly and distinctly, as he would to someone who is slow and easily confused.
Appropriate, eh?
"Pull - the - support - release."
"Yeah, but there IS NO -"
What's this little wire loop handle here?
"CatchitcatchitCATCHIT!!!!"
Huh.
Isn't that the way it goes?
I wing it.
I don't ask.
And I'm ticked when things don't "work".
Until I finally break down and read the instructions.
And talk to the Someone who knows.
Welllllllllll, duh.
He gave us the Book.
He wants to talk to us.
He came to show us how it allllll fits together.
And I get mad at Him?
Now how exactly do I google "idiot"?
Oh. Never mind.
Found it.
I just looked in a mirror.