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