The problem with people who have lots of money is they don't understand what it's like to not have lots of money.
Or to even not have enough money.
A recent trip to Mexico showed how great the contrast between haves and have nots are. In one area of the town we spent five days in, there was a vast landscape of shacks, barely running cars, dust and garbage.
Numerous homes were atop an old landfill site and many of the homes were made out of whatever material could be found.
And these were not druggies or alcoholic bums, but hard-working people who were trying to survive on a whopping $40US a week.
A few kilometres away, sat a strip of posh resorts. Pools, hottubs and condos with the same square footage or more as my entire house stretched for kilometres. BMWs, Mercedes and Cadillacs graced the parking lot, while the 'slums' were full of dented and rusted out cars that were as peace meal as the houses.
Having too much money has never been a problem I have had to face, but it is one I wouldn't mind trying on for size.
For a few years after we wed, my wife and I were so broke we could barely afford air, but we saved and worked hard to arrive at the humble abode we now call home.
During those broke years, I was covering an event as a photographer for the newspaper I worked for that featured a wealth-management specialist.
That is someone who tells people how to best take care of their money. Considering I did not have any money at the time, I did not pay too much attention to what he was saying.
That is until he said, “And with the extra money you have left over from each pay cheque, you can invest it in...”
Extra money?
What the hell is that?
What is this mythical thing called extra money of which he speaks?
At the time, we were 'foolishly' spending all our money on silly stuff like rent and food and we certainly did not have any 'extra money' lying around we could invest in something.
But to people in the audience with an abundance of money, it all made perfect sense.
I personally know a few people who are doing quite well financially. Some of whom made a lot of money in legal, yet somewhat unscrupulous manners, but that is for another time.
The common thread they all shared was they had no concept of what not being able to afford something was like.
This one guy and I were talking and I mentioned my truck needed some work.
His response, “Well just take it in to get fixed. Problem solved.”
He could not wrap his money-laden brain around the thought that, at the moment, I could not afford to have the work done.
He was baffled at the notion.
The conversation drifted in another direction and it wasn't long before he was telling me about his new boat, vacation plans and all the skiing they did last winter.
Years of working in newspaper has provided me with a career that I have come to regard as a job I have done for a very long time.
Coupled with a marginally acceptable wage and it was a way to pay the bills – most of them anyway.
The rich people I have met over the years – and I have met a few very rich people – cared about one thing and one thing only: money.
It was their god, it was their desire, it was their sole purpose for living.
They were not very nice people, at least not to us little people and I found some of the poorest people I have met were the most inviting, welcoming and generous with what little they had.
For someone who lusts, loves and covets money, they will never have enough. But for someone who loves people, life and giving you will always have enough.
Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Hola from the real Mexico, where many lives were changed
Turning off the rugged, pothole-filled paved road, a caravan of
vehicles made its way along a dirt road through the barrio of a
coastal Mexican town.
For several of us, it was the first time we
had ever been to Mexico, let alone deep into a neighbourhood of
shacks, small rundown travel trailers and peace-meal homes built from
whatever material could be found.
The homes sit atop an old landfill and pieces of plastic, glass and other materials poke through the light-brown dessert sand.
By North American standards, it looks like a slum, but for the people living in the barrio of Puerto Penasco (Rocky Point) it is home and not an uncommon neighbourhood. With a wage of mere $40 a week, it can be a challenge to provide even that.
While only a few kilometers from a pristine collection of resorts, condos and towering luxury buildings, the barrio might as well have been on a different planet, the contrast is so stunning.
As we pulled up to one particular shack, we were warmly greeted my Meetay, Jasmine and Charlie. Charlie is not his given name, but because of the difficulty our Canadian tongues would have in pronouncing his real name, he told everyone to just call him Charlie. So we did.
I thought our mission was to change the life of this Mexican family, but when it was over it would be my life and the outlook I have that would be changed.
Charlie and his family were typical of so many in the area. Honest, caring people who were doing their best to scratch out a living in an economy where wages were dollars a day and a litre of gas cost the same as Canada. Alcohol is cheap, milk is not.
We piled out of rented cars into the hot Mexican sun and immediately got to work building a ‘house’ for this warm and genuine family.
The house, by North American standards, was really not much to look at. A rectangle box with two doors, two windows and a tiny bathroom area, it measured 220 square feet – roughly the same size and the garage of my Okanagan home.
Dozens of wheelbarrows of concrete were mixed by hand to make the floor and foundation. The family was hooked up to electricity only a few months ago. Water was from a small pipe sticking out of the ground with a garden hose attached to it. There were no cement mixers, just wheelbarrows, shovels and large hoes with holes in them to mix the cement.
Prior to our arrival, the building material was dropped off at Charlie’s home. Someone had to stay at the home at all times to watch over the pressboard, bags of cement and two-by-fours. Charlie assured they would be safe.
“It’s OK, I have my 45,” he said not referring to a handgun caliber, but to his dog, whose name was 45.
First the forms were made to contain the cement mixture before everyone grabbed a shovel or hoe and began the laborious task of mixing the concrete.
The homes sit atop an old landfill and pieces of plastic, glass and other materials poke through the light-brown dessert sand.
By North American standards, it looks like a slum, but for the people living in the barrio of Puerto Penasco (Rocky Point) it is home and not an uncommon neighbourhood. With a wage of mere $40 a week, it can be a challenge to provide even that.
While only a few kilometers from a pristine collection of resorts, condos and towering luxury buildings, the barrio might as well have been on a different planet, the contrast is so stunning.
As we pulled up to one particular shack, we were warmly greeted my Meetay, Jasmine and Charlie. Charlie is not his given name, but because of the difficulty our Canadian tongues would have in pronouncing his real name, he told everyone to just call him Charlie. So we did.
I thought our mission was to change the life of this Mexican family, but when it was over it would be my life and the outlook I have that would be changed.
Charlie and his family were typical of so many in the area. Honest, caring people who were doing their best to scratch out a living in an economy where wages were dollars a day and a litre of gas cost the same as Canada. Alcohol is cheap, milk is not.
We piled out of rented cars into the hot Mexican sun and immediately got to work building a ‘house’ for this warm and genuine family.
The house, by North American standards, was really not much to look at. A rectangle box with two doors, two windows and a tiny bathroom area, it measured 220 square feet – roughly the same size and the garage of my Okanagan home.
Dozens of wheelbarrows of concrete were mixed by hand to make the floor and foundation. The family was hooked up to electricity only a few months ago. Water was from a small pipe sticking out of the ground with a garden hose attached to it. There were no cement mixers, just wheelbarrows, shovels and large hoes with holes in them to mix the cement.
Prior to our arrival, the building material was dropped off at Charlie’s home. Someone had to stay at the home at all times to watch over the pressboard, bags of cement and two-by-fours. Charlie assured they would be safe.
“It’s OK, I have my 45,” he said not referring to a handgun caliber, but to his dog, whose name was 45.
First the forms were made to contain the cement mixture before everyone grabbed a shovel or hoe and began the laborious task of mixing the concrete.
Gravel and cement were first mixed dry before water was added and the
whole thing was mixed yet again. When the last wheelbarrow was
dumped, we turned our attention to framing the walls that would be
put up the next day.
As the work progressed, neighbourhood children came over, shy at first, but by the end of the build they were running up to some of the foreigners they had bonded with, wanting piggyback rides or to sit in the sand with them and stack small pieces of cut wood in a game they had just made up. The children were a delight and irresistible to hang out with. Besides, it was also a good excuse to take a break from mixing cement, or later, swinging a hammer for a few minutes. Who could deny someone a chance to interact with a small child with huge brown eyes and an even bigger smile. These beautiful children would remember the people who played games with them and gave them their time long after the memory of the builders had faded.
A few venders showed up as well to ply their wares, but they were not aggressive like the ones in the Old Port market who do whatever they could to entice you into their shop.
“Amigo, you buy. You come look. We make deal.” were oft heard phrases in the market crammed with vendors, restaurants, taxis and more vendors all clambering to get the attention of the gringos. If you were white, you were assumed to have money.
Because we were there during the off season, there were not too many white folk to be found so the ones who were there were besieged by vendors. After a short while, I must admit it became very irritating to be constantly declining offers to purchase something, as you would no sooner decline an offer from one when another would attempt to get your attention. The sidewalks salesmen were relentless and almost overwhelming with their omnipresent sales pitch. Nothing had a price tag and everything was negotiable.
In contrast, the sellers at the build site sat patiently near the side of the road and waited for us to come to them - which we did at the end of each working day. Bartering is a given in Mexico, but most of us could not bring ourselves to haggle too much knowing these people were barely surviving and the few greenbacks we gave them would feed their family while our wallets would barely notice the absence of a few pieces of paper.
The first day’s work done, it was time to head back to base camp for a meal and time together before going to bed. We would be up before the sun to get as much work done as we could before the afternoon heat bore down on our winterized Canadian bodies.
Day two saw the walls go up, a roof put on and the first layer of stucco (a mixture of sifted sand and cement) as the swarm of pasty-white Canucks labored shoulder to shoulder with Charlie, his family and neighbours. When the first walls went up and the shape of a building began to form the volunteer work crew was re-energized, as real progress could be seen. Once the walls were secured, the roof was added and sheets of Tolko pressboard covered the entire structure.
Tar paper and chicken wire was then added to the exterior before it was back to the wheelbarrows and more hand-mixing cement and sifted sand for the first layer of stucco.
Day three had ther final coat of stucco added, windows and doors installed and finishing touches to the structure that would more than double their living area.
Through it all, Meetay could not stop smiling, a joy that infected the 20 people who travelled from the Great White North to help 1 Mission build yet another home for a deserving family. The heat of the day was barely noticed as we closed in on completion of the home and the excitement of making such a huge difference. The look of pride carried by Charlie was not lost on any of us.
A faith-based organization, 1 Mission builds 75 homes a year for the people of the barrio – for free. All that is required from those receiving the home is to put in 200 volunteer hours helping their neighbours. 1 Mission has been operating in Rocky Point for several years and have built some 300 homes; a feat that has not gone unnoticed among the barrio community who treat 1 Mission and its workers with respect.
As the last nail was driven into the door frame, you could not help but feel a sense of accomplishment, an inner joy for helping out such a deserving family and a humbling feeling of just how blessed we in Canada are to live in such a rich and luxurious nation.
For the first time in her life, 12-year-old Jasmine would have her own bedroom. Charlie and Meetay would take the other room and their former house would be their kitchen and common area. As a brief ceremony was held at the end of the build, Meetay and Jasmine could not hold back their tears and several of the builders also found themselves filled with emotion.
It was wonderful and fulfilling to spend time with ‘real’ Mexicans. To see the ‘real’ Mexico and not just some sanitized Americanized version of the nation that so many people visit, but few really experience.
These were just regular, everyday people, and we were blessed to be able to share a short portion of their lives. The unpaved roads, roaming dogs, blowing dust and sheer poverty in which so many Mexicans live was so far from anything I have ever seen in Canada, it takes a few days to process.
In this Mexico, there are no swimming pools, no waiters catering to your every whim, no maids cleaning your room while you lounge at the beach with a tequila, and I loved every minute of it.
We spent five days in Mexico, three building the home and two at a resort only a few kilometers away. By far, spending time with Charlie and his family was the more enjoyable of the two. It does the soul good to help others, there is a joy that cannot be found poolside as you sweat in the midday sun and rinse dust from your teeth or nurse a finger that got in the way of a swinging hammer.
I would highly recommend it. There is reward in giving of yourself to help others. The time at the resort is reduced to a few photographs and souvenirs, but the house built memories that will last a lifetime. The resort offers a few days of luxury, the home offers a family a life-changing blessing – both Charlie’s family and my own.
While my family and I chose to support a Christian-based group, there are many agencies working in communities throughout Mexico that could use some free labour. So perhaps the next time you go south, considering skipping a couple days of a king-size bed, big screen TV and room service to experience the real Mexico and to get more than just a tan. By helping out you will get a sense of satisfaction, lifelong memories and the knowledge that you made a difference in the life of someone not as blessed as you. You will not regret it.
As the work progressed, neighbourhood children came over, shy at first, but by the end of the build they were running up to some of the foreigners they had bonded with, wanting piggyback rides or to sit in the sand with them and stack small pieces of cut wood in a game they had just made up. The children were a delight and irresistible to hang out with. Besides, it was also a good excuse to take a break from mixing cement, or later, swinging a hammer for a few minutes. Who could deny someone a chance to interact with a small child with huge brown eyes and an even bigger smile. These beautiful children would remember the people who played games with them and gave them their time long after the memory of the builders had faded.
A few venders showed up as well to ply their wares, but they were not aggressive like the ones in the Old Port market who do whatever they could to entice you into their shop.
“Amigo, you buy. You come look. We make deal.” were oft heard phrases in the market crammed with vendors, restaurants, taxis and more vendors all clambering to get the attention of the gringos. If you were white, you were assumed to have money.
Because we were there during the off season, there were not too many white folk to be found so the ones who were there were besieged by vendors. After a short while, I must admit it became very irritating to be constantly declining offers to purchase something, as you would no sooner decline an offer from one when another would attempt to get your attention. The sidewalks salesmen were relentless and almost overwhelming with their omnipresent sales pitch. Nothing had a price tag and everything was negotiable.
In contrast, the sellers at the build site sat patiently near the side of the road and waited for us to come to them - which we did at the end of each working day. Bartering is a given in Mexico, but most of us could not bring ourselves to haggle too much knowing these people were barely surviving and the few greenbacks we gave them would feed their family while our wallets would barely notice the absence of a few pieces of paper.
The first day’s work done, it was time to head back to base camp for a meal and time together before going to bed. We would be up before the sun to get as much work done as we could before the afternoon heat bore down on our winterized Canadian bodies.
Day two saw the walls go up, a roof put on and the first layer of stucco (a mixture of sifted sand and cement) as the swarm of pasty-white Canucks labored shoulder to shoulder with Charlie, his family and neighbours. When the first walls went up and the shape of a building began to form the volunteer work crew was re-energized, as real progress could be seen. Once the walls were secured, the roof was added and sheets of Tolko pressboard covered the entire structure.
Tar paper and chicken wire was then added to the exterior before it was back to the wheelbarrows and more hand-mixing cement and sifted sand for the first layer of stucco.
Day three had ther final coat of stucco added, windows and doors installed and finishing touches to the structure that would more than double their living area.
Through it all, Meetay could not stop smiling, a joy that infected the 20 people who travelled from the Great White North to help 1 Mission build yet another home for a deserving family. The heat of the day was barely noticed as we closed in on completion of the home and the excitement of making such a huge difference. The look of pride carried by Charlie was not lost on any of us.
A faith-based organization, 1 Mission builds 75 homes a year for the people of the barrio – for free. All that is required from those receiving the home is to put in 200 volunteer hours helping their neighbours. 1 Mission has been operating in Rocky Point for several years and have built some 300 homes; a feat that has not gone unnoticed among the barrio community who treat 1 Mission and its workers with respect.
As the last nail was driven into the door frame, you could not help but feel a sense of accomplishment, an inner joy for helping out such a deserving family and a humbling feeling of just how blessed we in Canada are to live in such a rich and luxurious nation.
For the first time in her life, 12-year-old Jasmine would have her own bedroom. Charlie and Meetay would take the other room and their former house would be their kitchen and common area. As a brief ceremony was held at the end of the build, Meetay and Jasmine could not hold back their tears and several of the builders also found themselves filled with emotion.
It was wonderful and fulfilling to spend time with ‘real’ Mexicans. To see the ‘real’ Mexico and not just some sanitized Americanized version of the nation that so many people visit, but few really experience.
These were just regular, everyday people, and we were blessed to be able to share a short portion of their lives. The unpaved roads, roaming dogs, blowing dust and sheer poverty in which so many Mexicans live was so far from anything I have ever seen in Canada, it takes a few days to process.
In this Mexico, there are no swimming pools, no waiters catering to your every whim, no maids cleaning your room while you lounge at the beach with a tequila, and I loved every minute of it.
We spent five days in Mexico, three building the home and two at a resort only a few kilometers away. By far, spending time with Charlie and his family was the more enjoyable of the two. It does the soul good to help others, there is a joy that cannot be found poolside as you sweat in the midday sun and rinse dust from your teeth or nurse a finger that got in the way of a swinging hammer.
I would highly recommend it. There is reward in giving of yourself to help others. The time at the resort is reduced to a few photographs and souvenirs, but the house built memories that will last a lifetime. The resort offers a few days of luxury, the home offers a family a life-changing blessing – both Charlie’s family and my own.
While my family and I chose to support a Christian-based group, there are many agencies working in communities throughout Mexico that could use some free labour. So perhaps the next time you go south, considering skipping a couple days of a king-size bed, big screen TV and room service to experience the real Mexico and to get more than just a tan. By helping out you will get a sense of satisfaction, lifelong memories and the knowledge that you made a difference in the life of someone not as blessed as you. You will not regret it.
Friday, October 17, 2014
Spiders, spiders everywhere - eeeeek
Just reading the story freaks me out.
There is a family in the U.S. who bought a house that was already occupied.
No, there was not a hillbilly family living under the stairs, it was something much more horrifying – spiders.
Not just a few spiders, not even a few dozen spiders, but thousands of spiders. Thousands of brown recluse spiders - a very poisonous and dangerous spider.
It was estimated there were up to 5,000 of the creepy crawlies living in the walls, cupboards, closets, bathroom and every nook and cranny the house of horrors had.
The owner said the walls were 'bleeding spiders' there were so many of them. They would come out of every opening they could find, they would fall on people in the shower, they would...sorry, I had to stop typing for a second to do the spider dance where you twitch and jerk and brush away imaginary spiders that your mind is convinced are crawling all over you.
Just thinking about that many spiders is enough to give me the heebie jeebies and make me feel like they are crawling down the back of my shirt and...sorry, spider dance again.
The family has moved out and successfully sued the former owner for failing to mention the unwanted guests.
The former home owner immediately filed for bankruptcy, leaving the current owners stuck between a rock and a house full of spiders.
When we first moved to the area, my wife and I rented a home that had more than its fair share of arachnid activity.
Their numbers may not have been in the thousands, but a handful is more than enough to keep you awake at night wondering what is crawling into bed with you.
There was an extremely low vacancy rate at the time and the slumlord, er, I mean home owner knew it, so he had little interest in making improvements to the 1940s abode that had not seen an upgrade in many years, meaning we were left to face the hell-born beasts on our own.
After smashing more spiders than I ever thought possible, I bought a can of bug killer spray and hosed down the entire house. I sprayed every nook, cranny, opening and any area that might possibly harbour one of the messengers of terror.
Once the spraying was done, it was time to get out of there for a little while.
We took the dogs for a walk and when we came back it looked like a horror movie with dead bugs everywhere and...sorry, spider dance again.
We cleaned out their remains, but we knew the spiders were anything but vanquished.
They would be back, oh yes, there would be more.
But by this time we were at peace with the spider realm and shared our home with God's multi-legged creatures, living in harmony and happiness – yea, right.
Nope, we smashed every single one we could. After the chemical attack of doom, there were fewer spiders, but even fewer spiders is still too many spiders.
Zero spiders is the target number of spiders I am willing to share my home with.
We called that house The Addams Family home because it was just as creepy as the home of the TV ghouls who enjoy stuff like that.
We did not enjoy it, but there was really no where else for us to go. At the time, we were so broke a homeless guy gave me 25 cents, and we could not afford to move for several more months.
In all, we lived in the spider nest for 15 months before we had saved up enough to buy a modest town house – a spider-free town house I might add.
I look back on those early years of our marriage with fond memories – except for the spiders of course, that I look back on with terror and...spider dance.
There is a family in the U.S. who bought a house that was already occupied.
No, there was not a hillbilly family living under the stairs, it was something much more horrifying – spiders.
Not just a few spiders, not even a few dozen spiders, but thousands of spiders. Thousands of brown recluse spiders - a very poisonous and dangerous spider.
It was estimated there were up to 5,000 of the creepy crawlies living in the walls, cupboards, closets, bathroom and every nook and cranny the house of horrors had.
The owner said the walls were 'bleeding spiders' there were so many of them. They would come out of every opening they could find, they would fall on people in the shower, they would...sorry, I had to stop typing for a second to do the spider dance where you twitch and jerk and brush away imaginary spiders that your mind is convinced are crawling all over you.
Just thinking about that many spiders is enough to give me the heebie jeebies and make me feel like they are crawling down the back of my shirt and...sorry, spider dance again.
The family has moved out and successfully sued the former owner for failing to mention the unwanted guests.
The former home owner immediately filed for bankruptcy, leaving the current owners stuck between a rock and a house full of spiders.
When we first moved to the area, my wife and I rented a home that had more than its fair share of arachnid activity.
Their numbers may not have been in the thousands, but a handful is more than enough to keep you awake at night wondering what is crawling into bed with you.
There was an extremely low vacancy rate at the time and the slumlord, er, I mean home owner knew it, so he had little interest in making improvements to the 1940s abode that had not seen an upgrade in many years, meaning we were left to face the hell-born beasts on our own.
After smashing more spiders than I ever thought possible, I bought a can of bug killer spray and hosed down the entire house. I sprayed every nook, cranny, opening and any area that might possibly harbour one of the messengers of terror.
Once the spraying was done, it was time to get out of there for a little while.
We took the dogs for a walk and when we came back it looked like a horror movie with dead bugs everywhere and...sorry, spider dance again.
We cleaned out their remains, but we knew the spiders were anything but vanquished.
They would be back, oh yes, there would be more.
But by this time we were at peace with the spider realm and shared our home with God's multi-legged creatures, living in harmony and happiness – yea, right.
Nope, we smashed every single one we could. After the chemical attack of doom, there were fewer spiders, but even fewer spiders is still too many spiders.
Zero spiders is the target number of spiders I am willing to share my home with.
We called that house The Addams Family home because it was just as creepy as the home of the TV ghouls who enjoy stuff like that.
We did not enjoy it, but there was really no where else for us to go. At the time, we were so broke a homeless guy gave me 25 cents, and we could not afford to move for several more months.
In all, we lived in the spider nest for 15 months before we had saved up enough to buy a modest town house – a spider-free town house I might add.
I look back on those early years of our marriage with fond memories – except for the spiders of course, that I look back on with terror and...spider dance.
Friday, July 11, 2014
Deck reno complicated by 'matching' colours
As most people know, things rarely go as planned.
If they did, I would be hitting those six numbers at least once a year (no point in being greedy).
But after playing the stupid lotto for years and realizing the odds of me winning are slightly less than an Elvis comeback, I finally gave up on my 6/49 retirement plan.
Anyway, he latest intrusion of Murphy's Law into my life came when I was renovating the back deck. It is a covered deck which is very nice to shield my delicate skin from the Okanagan sun, but the carpeting was literally turning to powder, so the Missus and I decided we needed to replace it.
Actually the Missus decided it needed to be replaced and then she decided I was the one who was going to replace it.
We did not want to put in carpet again because carpet outside is little more than a giant dust collector. Even if the fibres are designed for an outdoor environment, they still get very dirty and are annoying to clean.
So we decided to rip the old carpet out – guess who got that job? - and sand the entire deck – guess who got that job? - and then resurface the entire deck – go on, guess who got that job.
If you guessed the tall bald guy, you would be correct.
I grabbed one edge of the carpet and gave a mighty pull, followed by a mighty cough as a dust storm similar to those found on the Sahara desert swirled around the entire deck, threatening to block out the sun.
And that was just the first of several mighty pulls it took to rip the carpet from the floor. Then I had to run around and hammer or remove the nails used to hold the carpet down before sanding off all the old glue the carpet installer had used.
I guess 623 nails were not enough to hold it in place.
Seeing as how we did not want to put in carpet again, we decided to put down a rubbery compound that goes on like paint, only a million times thicker.
We figured out how much we needed based on the size of the deck and the coverage rating of the can and decided two gallons should do it.
What we did not factor in was the wood on the deck was so dry it sucked the paint-like substance up like a frat boy at his first kegger. (except the floor did not barf all over its shoes at the end of the night)
This was the first part of the job to not go exactly as planned and the two cans did only half the deck. OK, no problem, we will just go back to the hardware store and get two more cans.
When we bought the first two cans I specifically asked the paint mixing person behind the counter that if we needed more, would they be able to match the original colour?
"Oh sure, no problem. It's all on the computer and we can match if perfectly,” she said in a chipper voice.
So we bought two more cans and headed home to slop it on the deck – confident in the colour matching perfectly.
Did I mention things don't always go as planned?
For some reason the new colour was a little darker than the original – so much for a perfect computer match.
I thought maybe when it dried it would match. Well, it has had several days to dry and it is still a little darker, so now I have to move everything from one side of the deck to the other – for the third time – and add a very light coat to make the colours match.
But what's a few hours extra work in the blazing Okanagan heat?
Annoying, that's what.
Copywrite 2014 Darren Handschuh
If they did, I would be hitting those six numbers at least once a year (no point in being greedy).
But after playing the stupid lotto for years and realizing the odds of me winning are slightly less than an Elvis comeback, I finally gave up on my 6/49 retirement plan.
Anyway, he latest intrusion of Murphy's Law into my life came when I was renovating the back deck. It is a covered deck which is very nice to shield my delicate skin from the Okanagan sun, but the carpeting was literally turning to powder, so the Missus and I decided we needed to replace it.
Actually the Missus decided it needed to be replaced and then she decided I was the one who was going to replace it.
We did not want to put in carpet again because carpet outside is little more than a giant dust collector. Even if the fibres are designed for an outdoor environment, they still get very dirty and are annoying to clean.
So we decided to rip the old carpet out – guess who got that job? - and sand the entire deck – guess who got that job? - and then resurface the entire deck – go on, guess who got that job.
If you guessed the tall bald guy, you would be correct.
I grabbed one edge of the carpet and gave a mighty pull, followed by a mighty cough as a dust storm similar to those found on the Sahara desert swirled around the entire deck, threatening to block out the sun.
And that was just the first of several mighty pulls it took to rip the carpet from the floor. Then I had to run around and hammer or remove the nails used to hold the carpet down before sanding off all the old glue the carpet installer had used.
I guess 623 nails were not enough to hold it in place.
Seeing as how we did not want to put in carpet again, we decided to put down a rubbery compound that goes on like paint, only a million times thicker.
We figured out how much we needed based on the size of the deck and the coverage rating of the can and decided two gallons should do it.
What we did not factor in was the wood on the deck was so dry it sucked the paint-like substance up like a frat boy at his first kegger. (except the floor did not barf all over its shoes at the end of the night)
This was the first part of the job to not go exactly as planned and the two cans did only half the deck. OK, no problem, we will just go back to the hardware store and get two more cans.
When we bought the first two cans I specifically asked the paint mixing person behind the counter that if we needed more, would they be able to match the original colour?
"Oh sure, no problem. It's all on the computer and we can match if perfectly,” she said in a chipper voice.
So we bought two more cans and headed home to slop it on the deck – confident in the colour matching perfectly.
Did I mention things don't always go as planned?
For some reason the new colour was a little darker than the original – so much for a perfect computer match.
I thought maybe when it dried it would match. Well, it has had several days to dry and it is still a little darker, so now I have to move everything from one side of the deck to the other – for the third time – and add a very light coat to make the colours match.
But what's a few hours extra work in the blazing Okanagan heat?
Annoying, that's what.
Copywrite 2014 Darren Handschuh
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