Paved With Good Intentions

shutterstock_199672226So there I was, standing outside HH’s locked car, parked in front of our local OneStop, contemplataing a three mile walk home. In the rain. Uphill. Both Ways.

“Well, self,” I said, “once again we can thank your good intentions for this fine mess…”

It all started a couple of weeks ago when HH decided the grandboys needed a treehouse. For once, we had money in savings, so he went ahead and placed his order for the biggest one we could afford, complete with plexiglass windows, a balcony, and a super cool green slide. Our grandsons are 6 and 8, and though this is really more of a playhouse on stilts, we are calling it a “treehouse.”


He looked just like this. Well, except for the whole “roped up and facing imminent death” thing. Man. Old cartoons are seriously twisted…

Our eldest grandson, standing next to the 462 bits of wood, spirit levels, bags of cement and a dozen packets of assorted screws and nails, looked up adoringly at HH, love hearts in his blue eyes. “PopPop,” he gushed, “I have dreamed of having a treehouse MY WHOLE LIFE…” He hugged HH tight around the waist. “Now, it’s A DREAM COME TRUE…”

Score one for PopPop!

Still, there were the 462 bits of wood, and concrete posts that needed to be levelled and set. This treehouse was going to be a mammoth task, and HH is a white collar worker. We called in the big guns, that is to say, our son in law, who is a dab hand at anything of this nature. The two men set to work Saturday afternoon, screwing bits of wood together, digging holes and mixing cement, all under a cold, drizzly sky.


Ahh, Stella… so close, yet so far away!

Like the generous-hearted gal that I am, I reasoned that the guys would want a beer at the end of their day, so off I trotted to the local OneStop. I was, by the way, dressed about as classy as your average hobo, having spent my afternoon building rabbit hutches and sorting the chicken coop. But oh well – I thrust vanity aside and made for the shop. Stella Artois was 3 for a fiver, so I picked those up with a few groceries, chucked my purse into the front seat of HH’s Nissan, shut the door and returned my basket to the store. (Because it’s rude not to return one’s basket.)

Well, this is how I managed to lock myself out of HH’s car, which should by rights have been an impossibility since I could clearly see my key fob on the top of my purse. So much for technology! I returned to the shop and borrowed their phone to ring home, but of course, HH was out in the garden…

I flagged down a generous-hearted local who, along with his wife, were willing to run me home to get another set of keys.  This marked the first and only time I have ever been in a Mercedes Coupe, blue, very posh, with pale grey interior… As might be expected, I immediately regretted going to the shop in my hobo attire. Nevertheless, all went well and, after tellling our whole life stories in the space of about 10 minutes and forging a lifelong friendship (as you do!), I grabbed the keys and returned to their car.

blue mercedes

Note to self: Wipe feet before entering the Mercedes…

However, because I live in the country and with English countryside comes dirt, I looked down and realized almost immediately I had got a half moon of black mud on their pale grey carpet. My bad! I spent the journey back to the shop with my feet glued to the underside of their dash, lest my disgusting heels again make contact with their posh carpet. Between mortification and muscle cramp, it was not my most comfortable journey of recent history. (Thank you, posh Pam and Craig – sorry about your carpet! And for the record, I am not really a hobo…)

With HH’s key fob in hand, I gained entrance to his car, zipped back home and unloaded my heavy bag of groceries, lightly tapping said bag on the concrete only to find that the bottom of one beer bottle was sheared clean off by said tap. My bag was instantly full of drunken groceries, and a river of beer made its way to the gutter. Yay.



Evil popcorn…

You would have thought all my disasterous generosity would stop there. But no. I then attempted to make popcorn. To go with the remaining beer, of course… A hideous steam burn and 3 blisters  later, the popcorn was done. The sensation of my hand being blowtorched simply would not lift, and I eventually drifted off to sleep last night with my hand immersed in a cup of ice water.

The same cup I tipped over this morning, drenching my pillows, slippers and an extension cord.

Some people never learn.

Mother Hen

  • feature photo: shutterstock
  • Bugs Bunny:
  • Stella Artois:
  • Mercedes:
  • popcorn:

© motherhendiaries 2015, all rights reserved.

28 replies »

  1. Now that is a bad day. Wow. Am hopeful the treehouse at least is moving along……….once it’s done, HH needs to take you out for dinner! 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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