Could it be genetic? Like my brown eyes...

Growing up one of my favorite people to hang out with was my Aunt Helen. Everyone should have an Aunt Helen. She was one of those people who just made you feel better about everything, even those things you already thought were great, let alone things that were difficult. She had an energy about her that had the capacity to charge anyone who came within ear shot of her humor, and laughter. Someone you just wanted to be around. I know her life wasn't easy all the time, in fact it could be down right hard. I know she had struggles of her own, but nothing seemed to get to her--at least that is what my 11-year-old eyes saw.

There were stories: the time her underwear fell off while wearing a dress and walking through the mall. She just kicked them off her ankle and stuffed them in her purse in one smooth motion. That was just how she rolled. Her life was filled with countless blunders and occurrences, that one just CAN'T make up because they are so absurd. She always had a good story to tell, and captivated her audience who would soon be rolling and crying, unable to breathe or believe, but never doubting it actually happened to her.

And so I dedicate what I am about to divulge to all of blogdom to my Aunt Helen--because I just can't make this stuff up. I seem to have that same knack of positioning myself in unbelievable situation after situation just as she did. I just hope I have comparable grace and charm as I laugh my way through life.

Joe had signed himself up for a study abroad to Mexico, and in doing so, sentenced me to a week with out him. I am one who needs a project, and for those who may not know, I usually have 3 or more such projects that I will be furiously working on at a time. Being that Joe was going to be gone for 8 days (not that long I know), I needed a big distraction to help me get through the week. Before he had even left, I decided what my project would be: landscape the backyard. In retrospect, that may have been a bit ambitious. We don't have a large yard mind you, but I was completely without experience, or sense. I acquired permission from our landlord, and Joe was not 24 hours gone when I began recruiting and planning, and plotting. I have fantastic friends out here who were ready and more than willing to help my carry out my plan of insanity in what ever way they could.


First things first. Our back yard was a dump. Some genius eons ago decided that wood chips the same color as the rotting fence would look great against the green humidity mold on the deck. Muloki added her own touches here and there leaving a nice wafting scent as she saturated the mulch day after day in her own doggie-way. Then there were the dishes, we don't even have cable. It all had to go. We rolled up our sleeves, plugged our noses and strapped on crummy shoes and went to work. So far, so good.

That first day went off great! A lot was accomplished. It gave me a real false sense of security that this project was going to go smooth, on time, and as planned. Then I made my first BIG mistake. BIG MISTAKE. On my first (of a dozen) trip to Home Depot, list in hand and pallet already full of topsoil, sand, paintbrushes and hoses, I thought I would save time and just ask what, "...was the most popular color was to stain decks around here. This one? I'll take two." No I have never met the sales person. No I don't know how many sales she had made or cans of paint she had mixed to come to any sort of conclusion as to what was the most popular. Yes I did look at the color before handing over the credit card, and purchasing two non-returnable cans of the stuff--it didn't look that bad. What did I know? I didn't wear the orange "ask me I can help" apron.

Of all the mistakes I made during the duration of this project (and my day-to-day life), I can at least testify I tend to make the right kind of mistakes that teach me what I need to know when I need to know it--if that makes sense. I should have painted the fence first, but I instead slathered a layer of thick orange paint (like an industrial strength melted orange Popsicle) across the far corner of my deck right off the bat. A right wrong thing to do. I don't know how I would have gotten the paste off the thirsty porous fence. I really didn't know how I would get it off the deck either. Tick-toc...tic-toc.

Dan. Dan was a friend I made during my singles ward years who is now an engineer residing in Utah. A guy who by happenstance was in the area during my backyard fiasco on business. Able bodied and a red-headed loon, he was just crazy enough to help me. We stood over the paint lamenting my mistake, and in his kind-nature, Dan offered to run off to Home Depot, get some paint stripper and the new stain color I settled on, saving me from packing up the kids and visiting that blasted store (where I was beginning to be recognized, and my children's names known) again. I had been earllier that day and the power had spontaneously gone out at that location just as they were going to mix my new paint. I couldn't get what I needed, or buy anything else, and my genetic ability to live out Murphy's law was manifest. I was so glad to not have to go again especially because it was about to close for the night.

I peered out of my window upstairs after putting the kids to bed to see how the stripping process was going. I was surprised to see Dan spraying something onto the orange sludge. I thought it odd because I was pretty sure the stripper was not in a spray form. Dan had been so thoughtful to try and save me a penny and buy stripper made for furniture--not nearly as expensive, abrasive, or enough to even start to cover the area. We scrubbed and tried to rinse off what there was, and not even a tiny bit of orange was separating from the deck. The later the hour, the more "hair-brained" the ideas that flowed, as we waged war against our now common orange enemy. Finally in a stroke of genius, or stupidity soaked in desperation, we found the only substance in my house that could possibly take off the paint:


Yes. But not just ordinary brillo pads, there were two sample pads in the box of the rolled wire variety. Dan slipped on gloves, tied on a trash bag to his waist to protect his clothes, and wire pads in hand we put that slogan to the test. Where were my gloves? Ask Dan. Then look at the scars across my knuckles. I think I may write a testimonial to Brillo and inform them that Behr makes a pretty solid paint product, but their brillow pads plus a little bit of determination and teeth grinding were enough to strip my deck of the most horrific orange paint that would only be fit for the inside of a pumpkin. I could make a pretty good case for their product, if I could only release the claw of a hand I now sport.


It was 1:30 in the morning before we finished. Amazingly, nearly all of the paint came off, short of a few specks in the cracks that I think I can live with. Even if I decided that I couldn't, our brillow pads had disentigrated to splinters of metal no longer recognizable let alone useful. We joked that had I have painted three square inches more, we wouldn't have been able to get it off due to the fact that the rolled wire pads life span was exactly long enough to clean off just the damage I had already done, and nothing more--another good example of a right mistake.


Ah, but the drama didn't end there. I saluted Dan who peeled himself up off the deck and headed out to his car. Five minutes later, a knock at the door. Dan forgot his shoes of all things. Another five minutes later, Dan came back with bigger news, "My car is gone! It's been stolen."

I wanted to throw up right there, and may have if it wouldn't have required so much effort on my part. I was too tired. We paced around my house trying to decide what the best first move would be. I tried to look up the police number in the phone book, but was so tired, I couldn't think of where it was. Dan phoned his poor worried wife, and a co-worker. Finally I found the number, and we called to report a missing car. From my end, the conversation went something like this, "...yes officer I'd like to report a missing car...the address...yes...yes it was...a white one...two thousand seven...oh? really? thank you." Click. Not stolen--towed Daniel, towed.

Now after two a.m., there was no way I was going to wake the babes and drag their little bodies to the car and drive Dan to the impound. It would have to wait until morning, at least a few hours of shut-eye. My kids chose that night to take turns picking on me getting up. I dragged my beaten-self from room to room that night rocking and nursing and consoling. The sun came up way too soon, and my dry eyes and sore body hated the light. At least the deck was like a clean slate, I had the new color, and wouldn't have to make a trip to Home Depot that day to start the next phase.

It seemed that after we got over that hump the rest of the project went relatively smooth, or I should say that nothing was harder than what we had already done, giving the illusion of smooth sailing. Painting went well. I started with the fence this time, and the color was beautiful. Lots of cheery hands made the time and labor pass. In a day and a half the fence was a rich new color. I steered away from orange entirely, listened to no one, and went with a purple/red color.


I put anyone to work who made the mistake of asking, "do you need help with anything while Joe is gone?" This included new neighbors who had not even been in their place for an entire 24 hours, certainly still packed, before I had them painting and laying a stone path at the far end of my yard. I was on a tight schedule, and ran my house like an army boot camp.

For every job that there was along the way, there seemed to materialize a person who knew how to help on the appointed day that particular project need to get accomplished. It sounds silly, but it was an absolute answer to my prayers, "....oh man Heavenly Father, I have SO much to try and get done today, I don't know how I will ever get it done. I don't really know how to do such and such." Poof. Stephanie and the girls she watches show up to paint. Poof. Dan and his forearm. Poof. Quincy and his wife who had laid stone before. Poof. Brian who knew how to level the ground. Poof. Will and Charlie who laid sod before. All the while completely consumed with my backyard, the rest of my house and duties were falling apart. Poof. Dinner provided. Poof. Kimi cleaned my house.


By Saturday night, it was completed. I was stunned. I couldn't believe it had been finished ON TIME despite my genetic disposition to try and complicate everything I do. I was humbled by the help I had, and the beauty I would enjoy because of the efforts of good friends. I couldn't wait to see Joe's reaction. Had it not have been finished, I still wouldn't have worked on the Sabbath. I have a new found appreciation of the work it takes to create something, and the necessity to set aside a day to rest from all your labors.



After all that had happened I needed a BIG reaction from Joe, and he didn't let me down. He flew in late Sunday night, about midnight, so when he got home, I had the blinds drawn so he couldn't see. Monday was a Memorial Day so he didn't have to work. I got out the camera and filmed him coming down stairs, and told him I had something for him. He stopped in the middle of the steps, carrying Sadie and with bug eyes said, "are you pregnant?" No. But that would have been a better surprise.

When he made his way to the back window, he shouted, "HOLY CRAP!" Joe: shocked. Me: satisfied.

Cheers Aunt Helen. I know you were watching.