At Winning a Losing Battle: Me: 0, Hardwood floor 29

Mr. Blanding's Builds His Dream House! Need I say more. I am living a Cary Grant and Myra Loy 1948 film, based on the book of the same name.

I have bought a small house, built in 1925.  I have named it "The Little House on 11th." It's lovely. It's cozy. It's charming. It's a bitch!  And as usual, I find myself say "What was I thinking?"

Well, the house isn't really a bitch, but the stuff that's been done to it over the years is and displays great disapproval over my attempts to remove it.  I have begun my "taking this house and making it my own" journey into the far reaches of The Twilight Zone. And the stories are now starting to back up and I have got to take time to write my adventures.... or better misadventures into the great unknown.  As one friend said "Let the money pit begin."

One Saturday not so long ago, I found myself stuck inside on a dreary day. I got a bee in my bonnet and decided to take up some of the 1990s-looking parquet floor or tiles or wooden bricks (not really sure what to call them.) that cover the dining room and hallway floor.  My hope was to find nice bright and shiny hardwood just waiting to glow in the sunshine again.  I prayed to the remodeling gods to please let me take a few of the tiles up and peer down and see my smiling face in beautifully-polished red oak.

After easily popping up a few of the tiles, I knew what I would see was not my face.  My hope floated away out the window into the sky and sucked through the turbine of a 747 flying over.

Instead a lovely polished oak floor, glaring back at me was a sad dingy floor. Coated in what surely would end up being the death of me. A pale-lifeless layer of someone's idea of modern decorating. A coat of beige paint.  I almost feel into despair, but I did not lose my faith.  I snapped a photo, sent them to friends saying that I should not be left alone on a dreary day, and hoped for encouragement, which of course I didn't really get.  More like "that's gonna cost a lot to redo."  And "just take it all up and start over." Sigh.  But there was one who promised me it would be alright.  "Plow forward and put some elbow grease in it.  You'll get there."  And so I did.

I plowed forward, seeking solace in This Old House YouTube videos, some quality on-line websites, and eventually a pitcher of sangria.  The sangria didn't really help in prying up the bricks, but I will admit that I truly enjoyed their song and dance routine that they did after I got them up. It reminded me of the broom sequence in Fantasia as they marched across the floor into the disposal bin.  As a general note, sangria and home-remodeling really don't mix well.

What came next only felt like a knife being pushed further...  The brick tiles had not only been nailed down, but also glued.  Oh joy!  Oh happiness!  I'm sure you've seen those scenes in movie and on television where someone lets out a string of swear words and flocks of birds fly away. It was one of those moments.  If mathematicians had studied that string of tightly-woven words, they may have possibly been able to compare it to the Fibonacci Sequence, noticing a distinct similarity.

Enough for now.  Check back to see who actually won this match.  Me or the glue!

CSM

When the Time Comes

Everyday I wonder if this is the day I die.  The last day of my life.  A one-way ticket out of here.

Okay before anyone jumps to any conclusions, I want to say that I am not suicidal nor am I wanting to die, but I know that some day I will.  This one thought everyday reminds me that every day is important and needs to be more that just a day at work, doing chores, and paying bills.

Losing my mother at the age of thirty-eight had a very profound effect on me.  More than I may ever realize. Since that day, I have tried to make everyday count.  Count for something more than the daily grind.  Not just working. Not just worrying about my car that could croak at any minute. Not just praying that I can retire with a decent income.

Life is so short. Life is too short.  Life is way too short.   I look in the mirror on occasion and think to myself "Where did that young man go?"  The mirror is the same, but the reflection is different.  These moments also serve as a reminder that time is flying by.

Here's a piece of advice...  Always start the day with "Is this my last day?"  I find that it makes me reflect on my life, about where I've been and where I'm going and what new adventures lay ahead.

So when the time comes, I want to be ready.  To be able to say that I lived my life to the fullest and if that means leaving behind everything I've worked for so be it.  You can't take it with you.

CSM