The potholes of an unbalanced life

Alone time. The fairy tale fantasy some wives and mothers only read about in books made a sudden and unexpected appearance in my world Saturday afternoon.
I had no lead time to build up anticipation for the rare event, which kind of stunk because sometimes just daydreaming about something so good is better than the real thing.
That’s because when the real thing drops in my lap, I never have enough sense to just sit back with a glass of wine and thumb through that growing stack of renovation magazines I keep buying.
Instead, I do crazy woman stuff like buffing 500 sq. ft. of ceramic tile with my feet.
First of all, I shake my head at the gargantuan job Pete and I undertook in this crazy plan to tile our world—thinking we’d have the whole affair buttoned up and beautiful in a New York minute.
Were we born last night or what?
Granted, we were successful in our venture and the place looks like a page out of “Architectural Digest,” but hey, at what price?
There’s something to be said about maintaining balance in your daily life. Laundry is piling up, dogs are skinny, dust bunnies are breeding multiple litters, and the supper hour has taken a distance second to a hurried snack of crackers slammed with cheese and ham.
So true-to-form, I continued this whirlwind foolishness when alone on Saturday. I got busy cleaning up from our “Tile-a-thon” in the “great room” and kitchen.
The night before, Pete had grouted while I stood around and pouted. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine anything so labour-intensive as washing off excess mortar grunge.
In my opinion, whoever invented the messy application of grout should serve an afterlife sentence along with the guy who invented the shrink wrap on CDs.
By Saturday afternoon, post 16-hours of grout drying time and two washes, a dull haze still masked a “gazillion” ceramic tiles. I—in my alone time—took on the job of “shammy queen.”
I got down on my hands and knees—again—this time to shine each tile. My kneecaps screamed “Uncle.” The polishing job called for Plan ‘B.’
So I called in reinforcements—my piano legs, fast-moving feet, and the “jacked-up” stereo.
And for the next 90 minutes, give a break or two to wipe down the sweated brow, I shimmied and shook—with a shammy beneath my feet—like a “Chubby Checker” wannabe.
By the time I was done, my hips were worn out and my hair was nasty. But the floor looked like a million bucks.
I had two hours to spare before Pete arrived home from work—just enough time to move all the furniture back in, and pop the cork on the bottle of wine I had waiting in the wings.
With a “childless” evening ahead, who knew what the night would bring?
Well, so much for that idea. All this new flooring had seized both our engines. Pete couldn’t bend his knees or kneel and my back was so sore, I couldn’t sit down or lie down without grimacing.
There we were. Two incapacitated love monkeys, alone, just daydreaming about something so good (it was almost better than the real thing).

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