Bob the Builder wannabe

You already know how this is going to turn out.

My husband had some loose tiles by his shower.  After taking a Dremel to the grout and a scraper to the Wonder board (aren’t you impressed), I successfully pulled them out.   Only one piece of tile needed to be cut and I owned a small wet saw.  Though I hadn’t used it in a while, I thought it would be like riding a bike.  Seems like the only thing I forgot was the direction to set the saw on the concrete.  Needless to say when I flipped the on switch, I drenched myself with water spurting out of the back-end of the reservoir.  Good it was a sweltering day!

The water not only shocked me, but quickly excited the bed of ants I had unknowingly placed the tool over.  I had ants up to my knees in a relatively short period of time. 

Two hours later, a little wetter and a more cognizant of why I had let those tiles remain loose for so long, I had cut one tile to specifications. 

I’m still not sure what I want to be when I grow up, but it is definitely not a tile layer.  Years ago, I had spent all day working and all night feebly moving after laying less than half the floor tiles in the patio room.  It had seemed a whole lot easier in the Home Depot class.  The instructor had recommended a drill attachment for mixing the thin set mortar.  Little did they know I could mix the dough for ten loaves of bread at once.  The first batch mixed pretty easy with my “make do” heavy duty kitchen whisk.  Cockiness took over as I poured the second batch and mixed the whole fifty pound bag at once.  I couldn’t budge the whisk.  Wonder if that’s how Jimmy Hoffa felt?  I stuck both hands in and kneaded.  Something in the cement didn’t agree with my skin.  By the end of the day, I had blisters on my hand, bruises on my knees, and a complex from my daughter’s dog who had stared at me all day.

Yes, the dog who was only slightly more intelligent than anyone laying their own tile.   Coco had taken Bartlebee to work with her at the plant nursery situated on a gravel yard.  The dog wore his little paws off, so we had to carry him outside to do his numbers.

I wish Home Depot had warned me about the mixing-the-mortar-with-your-hands thing…  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

At first I fussed about the tile.  After awhile I figured they were level enough if my heart rate didn’t increase when I walked across the room. 

On the second day, I had coerced the GAP, well into her third tri-mester, into running the wet saw for the edge cuts.  Taking a break between mixing mortar, I cleaned the refrigerator.  Not that I’m an A personality (or was that E like the fast rides at Disneyland) or anything, but I went to drink the last swig of orange juice (yes, from the carton) and on my way lifting it out off the shelf, I knocked over the pitcher of Crystal Light.

Tile, ugh.  The memory looms.  This may be my last post, as I can’t see myself living through the day.

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