Momma's Little Helper

It has been awhile since I lasted posted, ok, it's been 22 days since I last posted. But it is not because I have been lazy. Far from it. It is February, which in Texas means it is almost summer, and I have started working on my yard. It's kind of a yearly thing with me. In February, I get all excited about growing things in my yard and plan new flower beds, plant vegetables, etc. By July, reality has set in, it's 100 degrees outside, dry and everything is dead. Ok, some things are still alive but that's because we have a sprinkler system, not because of any effort on my part. But right now it is February and hope springs eternal.

I frequently drag my husband and father into these little projects. This year, Adam built me a new vegetable garden. I like raised beds, because the dirt out here is so poor, so Adam nailed a bunch of 8-foot long landscape timbers together for me. And then I had to get some new dirt to fill in my new vegetable garden so I ordered some for delivery.

This past Saturday morning, a dump truck delivered 11 yards of dirt and compost and deposited it on my driveway. The fact that we couldn't fit it in the bed of our truck but had to have it delivered by a dump truck should tell you something. Yep, 11 yards is a lot of friggin' dirt...a whole lot. I would estimate the pile to be about 4.5 feet high and 10 feet long. So, now I have all of this dirt sitting in my driveway and an empty vegetable garden in the back yard which means the dirt has got to be moved.

Which is where Momma's little helper comes in, and I am not talking about the bottle of bourbon in my liquor cabinet (that's Momma's big helper), I am talking about Andrew. The appearance of a dump truck in his front yard left him speechless and the big pile of dirt it left behind...well, he was just giddy with excitement.

We immediately pulled out shovels and the wheel barrow and began shoveling dirt. Andrew ran to get his shovel and wheel barrow out of the backyard and pitched right in. He then followed Adam into the backyard pushing his own wheel barrow. Of course, Andrew made it about 1/4 of the way to the garden before he decided his wheel barrow was too heavy and Momma needed to carry it for him. After that he switched to his dump truck which he could just push across the ground. Of course, because Andrew was "helping," everything took twice as long to do.

Did I mention we had overestimated the amount of dirt we would need? Way overestimated. So, Saturday night saw us at Home Depot buying rocks to build raised flower beds. By Sunday, we had recruited assistance. My father came over to help and we even sucked in Adam's dad. By lunch time on Sunday, the new vegetable garden was full of dirt, the old vegetable garden had a nice thick layer of compost added, two flower beds had been built and filled with dirt and we had started spreading dirt across the yard to level it out.

And Momma's little helper was out like a light. He took a four-hour nap. In fact, Andrew napped so well I had him out moving dirt on Monday. I think moving dirt could become a regular occurrence at our house which is fortunate since I still have a huge pile of dirt sitting on my driveway.

Panic!

I pride myself on being a calm person in general. In an emergency situation, I generally remain in control of my emotions and don't panic. Of course, I did add the caveat "in general."

You know how every other cheesy movie has a character who has a repressed memory or some awful childhood memory that makes them do strange things. Well, tonite I starred in my own cheesy movie "When Good Weather Goes Bad."

See, it all started when I was about 3 years old. One night, some really bad storms blew through Austin including some with really large hail. I understand it sounded like a freight train coming. I vaguely recall laying in the hallway, with my pillow over my head and my mother covering me with her body. It tore up roofs and, if you were so unfortunate as to have windows facing the direction the storm came from, broke a lot of windows.

Needless to say I do not like hail. Actually, that is a little bit of an understatement. Hail completely unnerves me and I freak out, even lose control a little bit. I can hear the very first piece of hail hit the ceiling. As a child, many times the first indication my parents had of a hail storm at night was me crawling into bed with them.

So tonite, I was upstairs talking to Adam. I step out of his office and notice that it has started raining. No problem. I walk down the hall, check on Andrew and then hear thunder and see lightning. Again, no problem. I walk down the stairs to check radar and just as I step onto the tile floor, I hear hail. Big problem. I momentarily lose complete control. I yell out for Adam with a note of panic in my voice. He comes racing down the stairs asking what is wrong.

"It's hailing."
"It is?"
"YES! Can't you hear it?" (I mean really, is the man deaf?)
"Is it big hail?"
"Well, no, it is actually pretty small." (Probably not even pea size, but it could get bigger at any second.)
"Would you like me to bring Andrew downstairs?" (God bless the man, he knows me inside out.)

Actually yes, but I am trying desperately not to overreact, so no. Nevertheless, I head down the hall to our closet underneath the stairs (it's a walk-in) after telling Adam to check radar. When the house was being built, we identified this closet as the strongest place in the house. Andrew and I spent some time in it last fall when a tornado was reported a couple of miles away (Adam was out of town). It is equipped with old tennis shoes and socks for Adam and I, raincoats for everybody, a wind up radio, a weather alert radio and flashlights. Now that storm season has started, in FEBRUARY for pete's sake, I will add some bottled water and crackers (I am prepared).

Of course, during Christmas it was used for storing presents, empty toy boxes and wrapping paper. So, I go down the hall and immediately start chucking toy boxes out of the closet and into the garage. Got to make sure there is room for me, my child, my husband, and my dog. Boxes are flying left and right. There is no time to waste, I mean it is hailing for heaven's sake.

Once I clear sufficient space, I head back to the family room and discover it has stopped hailing. Emergency over. Crisis averted. Everyone can return to their normal activities.

I might have overreacted...a bit. But don't worry, I will let you know if it starts hailing again.

Friends Don't Let Friends Texture

Let me start by saying I have really great parents whom I love and adore. They are really great grandparents to Andrew and have done a lot for me and Adam. So, when they need something done, I am more than willing to help out. (In English class, this would be called foreshadowing).

My parents are in the process of remodeling their 2 bathrooms and are doing some of the work themselves. (If you didn't just say "Oh shit" you should have...see foreshadowing.) A couple of weeks ago, Dad asked me to help with painting the bathrooms and I, who love to paint rooms, said yes. I can honestly say that I didn't exactly understand what I was signing up for.

My parents house is close to 50 years old (it is the house they owned when I was born and, no, I am not 50). The bathrooms have always been wallpapered, back in the 70's it was this god-awful gold and white wall paper and more recently a subdued tan with some hints of blue. My father had peeled off this wallpaper to reveal bare sheetrock.

My cousin Scott, who has done a little remodeling himself, told my father that the walls would need to be textured. I have never thought of Scott as a mean person, but, clearly he has a sadistic streak.

After visiting with the guys at Home Depot, we settled for the bucket of goop that provided a smooth texture finish. The guy at Home Depot assured us this was much easier than working with the goop that left a heavier texture. According to him, you just slap it on the wall with a trowel and spread it out. No problem.

So this morning, I go over to my parents house at 6:30 and, after breakfast, we begin work. There is normally a large mirror in the bathroom so we decide to start on the wall that will be covered by the mirror. I take our trowel, slap some goop on the wall and begin to spread. It looks horrible. I mean truly awful. So I decide to read the directions on the bucket of goop. It says we should be using a loop roller to apply the goop. So we trek back to home depot, buy some more stuff, get injured in the process, and try again. The loop roller looks even worse than the trowel. By this time, Mom has wisely retreated to another part of the house where she will remain for most of the day.

Dad and I discuss our options:
a) Continue with the goop we have and hope we figure it out.
b) Don't texture the wall and just paint it.
c) Hire a contractor to do it.

Despite my very vocal support, Option C is tossed out pretty quickly. The guys at Home Depot and the aforementioned cousin Scott made it clear that we can't just paint the sheetrock (and the sheetrock is in pretty bad shape I should include), so Option B is out. That leaves only Option A. We were going to have to texture the damn thing.

So, I take a paint brush and begin slapping goop up on the wall and Dad starts spreading it with the trowel. It was not pretty. To quote A Christmas Story, "In the heat of battle my father wove a tapestry of obscenities that as far as we know is still hanging in space over Lake Michigan." I should say that Dad was not the only one cursing. It is a good thing Andrew was not around or he would have a whole bunch of new words to repeat.

By the time we finished today, at 2:00 pm, our technique had improved considerably. I wouldn't say it looked great, but it looks better than it did when we started (not that it could have gotten much worse). I just hope we can hide some of the flaws with paint. And both of us agreed, we hate texturing walls and never want to do it again.

Did I mention that we still have one bathroom to do?