We’re smack in the middle of landscaping season over here. Over the last week or so, we’ve painted a kajillion fence boards, dug 21 four-foot-deep holes, mixed up about eleventy thousand wheelbarrows full of cement and in the process, I’ve managed to render myself almost totally incapable of walking completely upright. I’ve got the pregnant woman waddle (complete with hand-on-lower-back action.) (No, I’m not pregnant. Or 80. I just feel that way.) (By “that way,” I of course mean “pregnant and 80″. With a sore back.)

So, after all that, what else would I do but sand and stain a million more pieces of wood? I just needed that little “extra” something to complete my transition to total gimpdom. Score!

Normal people would pick just one or two things to do in a summer, but we’re anything but normal around here. We’re also anything but smart, apparently. The plan for this summer?

• Build a deck. (Check!)
• Spread out two dumptruckfuls of dirt. (Check!)
• Build a fence (Partial marks for progress)
• Plant tree in front yard (Check!) (And bonus marks for not falling in the ginormous hole and breaking random body parts in the process)
• Plant several shrubs in front yard
• Plant trees and shrubs in back yard
• Lay sod in front and back yards
• Add decorative rock to shrub and tree arrangements
• Build big, stupid, heavy, labour-intensive playset for children (I’m aiming for a cruise after completion of this one)

This afternoon, I pawned my kids off on my mother-in-law and got to work on what will now be known as The Bane of my Existance (or, TBME for short). We had a choice between a cheap-but-nice playset or a more-expensive-but-pressure-treated-and-equally-nice set. Take a wild guess which one we chose. Go on, guess. That’s right. The cheap one. Because, again, what fun would life be if I didn’t get to waste a day crouching in the garage? I may be rendered incapable of moving, but at least I’ll have enough money to buy myself a wheelchair…

First, I laid out all the wood.

(But, wait! There’s more!)

Then I cried a little.

Then I pulled myself up by my bootstraps and decided to stop prolonging the inevitable. I spent the better part of the afternoon sanding each and every board in order to get them ready for varnish.

When I picked up the bottle of clearcoat, the giant skull and crossbones and the evil flame-face snickered back at me. It looked a little ominous, so I decided to read the instructions on the side of the container. I was warned to wear a protective eyegear, chemical-resistant gloves, flame-resistant clothing and a freaking respirator.

“What are you trying to do, kill me?” I shrieked at my husband.

“What are you talking about?” he replied, rolling his eyes.

“This! Read this! I need a hazmat suit to use this crap! I can’t use this!”

“Well, the girl at Totem said that’s what we should use.”

“And you’re just going to believe her? I could die out here using this shit.”

“But it’ll take forever to go get more.”

“Are you freaking kidding me? Did you see the flame-face? He’s mocking me! The bottle says that rags will just spontaneously combust if you leave them scrunched in a ball. We could blow up the house!”

Needless to say, my histronics scored me a trip to Home Depot to pick up a significantly less-deadly form of varathane. The recommended number of coats? Four. FOUR! I imagined a set of scales in my head. On one side, me dressed up like a member of the CDA applying one glorious coat of liquid death to the playset. On the other, crippled me lying in the fetal position in the centre of the garage after applying the fourth and final deathcoat to TBME.  

For whatever reason, the idea of me spending roughly the next 90 years staining boards won out over the toxic-waste-in-a-bottle and I decided to suck it up and get to work.

By the second coat, the ol’ paintin’ shoulder was voicing its displeasure. I’m pretty sure I heard it call me a cheap bastard. By tomorrow morning, I’m sure it won’t be as pleasant. (My paintin’ shoulder has quite a colourful vocabulary. So does my lower back.) 

When I was finished for the evening, I staggered to my feet and hobbled into the house, looking for all the world like a hunched-over neanderthal. I contemplated having a bath to loosen my sore, angry muscles. Then I had a vision of the “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” lady and worried that, once I was in there, I wouldn’t be able to hoist my crippled behind back out again.

So I decided not to. But then I saw my husband, decided to put him on rescue notice and had one anyway. (For the record, I was actually able to stand up and climb out completely of my own accord. Yay, me!)

(Oh, and want to hear something funny? We haven’t even assembled it yet. I can’t wait.)

So, the moral of this story? Either work out or shell out ’cause failure to do so causes painful results. The lower-back agony I will be enduring over the next couple of days as a result of my manual labour attempt pretty much overshadows the extra couple of hundred bucks we could have spent on pressure-treated wood. Ouch. Once I’m mobile again, I think a trip (or 100) to the gym might be in order…

Filed under: Keepin' it Real, Me, Pity Party |