Last week was for projects. Both daughters painted glass, while the boyfriend of daughter #2 worked on a picture. I had two enterprises--spray paint the outdoor patio chairs and remove the pool ladder --both required assistance from family members.
Since quarantine, I've spent considerable time in the pool, teaching water aerobics, floating and reading, and swimming laps. Not an easy feat in a small, oval-shaped pool--seven arm strokes from one end to the other. Unsatisfied swimming in circles, I hooked my legs to the top step of our pool ladder and attempted to swim in place, which worked until I couldn't stand the pain in my feet. I wondered at the fuzzy, slimy gunk my toes touched underneath the step, and after fifteen minutes of in-place swimming, I went underwater for a peek.
GAG! GAG! GAG!
In my thirty-plus years working in the aquatic industry, I can honestly stipulate I've never seen the horror I witnessed beneath the steps of my pool ladder--black and green algae caked in every crevice. Perhaps because I worked at pools with metal ladders or because we removed them often for swim meets, I hadn't thought to check these steps in the ten or so years we've had this ladder, but there was no way in hell I could ignore what my eyes had just seen. Behold project #1.
Unable to remove the ladder on my own--and I tried--I requested help. It fell on deaf ears. I Googled for helpful advice, scanned the information until it suggested using a car jack, and turned back to the hubby and boyfriend of daughter #2 (Oleg). Hubby's advice was to clean the steps while in the pool. My counter to that idiocy was to insult their manhood.
Me: "You're probably right. There's no way you two can get that ladder out. It would take brute strength to remove it. It's so stuck in the ground, not even Jason Momoa could yank it out, and he's ripped!"
Both of them were on the deck and pulling at the ladder while Jason's name still echoed through the house.
The ladder didn't budge, of course, but having offered the bait, I flipped my wrist to hook them. A discussion on ladder removal ensued, and I slowly reeled them in, casually mentioning my earlier research and the car jack. Before I could blink, they were dragging in a car jack, using various objects to raise the jack, including items that broke mid-pumping. Bricks from the landscaping in the front yard brought satisfaction and jacking began from different angles.
The ladder did not budge.
By now, I was in the water scrubbing the sides of the pool, so I asked daughter #2 (Darcy) to Google the same information I'd read earlier. Apparently, I'd skipped over a few steps. Like removing the bolt to the anchor wedges. Oops.
Darcy: "Really, Mom? It was, literally, step one."
The bolts were removed, the car jack pumped up and down, moving from one side of the ladder to the other until the only thing moving was the part of the ladder inside the pool, and it was jacked out of the water enough for me to realize that the steps were bolted into the ladder with a simple screw and nut.
My name went on to Oleg and Tom's shit list immediately.
Me: "Well, really, you never listen to what I say without double-checking me."
Tom: "This is an example of why I do just that."
I wisely kept quiet, took the wrench, and proceeded to remove the steps from my now badly mangled ladder--still in the ground. When they got a look at the reason behind my madness, they too wisely kept quiet.
I mean, GAG, GAG, GAG.
**
I've had two rattan chairs since before my daughters were born. They were part of a set that included a couch I no longer own, and they've been sitting on my front porch for several years. They didn't really fit on my porch, although I loved how they looked against my house, and the weather and elements ruined the cushions and parts of the rattan. But not enough that I didn't think they could be brought back to life. Behold project #2.
I hired Darcy at fifty bucks a chair to bleach them and then spray paint them. One day was devoted to washing, and we both agreed they cleaned up as nicely as I dreamed. We found cushions and picked out paint. Then nothing.
Darcy: "It says on the can not to spray during high heat or humidity. I'm waiting until early morning or late evening."
After several days of excuses, I hauled out the first chair, planning on painting it myself. Luckily for me, the husband pulled up while I was prepping the job.
After our typical back and forth exchange, including the following questions--
"What are you doing?"
"Why aren't you doing that on the driveway?"
"Why do you need a tarp?"
"How are you going to spray it?"
--I switched gears and channeled my inner Tom Sawyer.
Me: "What do you suggest? Should I spray the entire chair in a pattern? Start here? Or here? You probably have more experience with this then I do. Here, give it a go and show me."
By the time Darcy realized what was happening, Tom had emptied one paint can while I talked on the telephone from the comfort of my front porch.
Darcy: "I contracted this job out, so make sure you pay me the $100, and I'll see that my subcontractors get their take."
We all had a hand at spraying the chairs in the three days we worked on them, stopping for more paint and allowing for dry times. I'm pretty happy with the end result. Next up is purchasing furniture covers when not in use.
And I suppose painting the table which conveniently was forgotten. Still, I'm satisfied with project number two.
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