It damned near killed me. We worked all day on this bitch. We started at like nine and just finished the last pour right before it got too dark to see shit any more.
What you have to understand is that we are using an electric concrete mixer from Harbor Freight that only holds three cubic feet max, and we were mixing at max. So we basically did a 16' by 12.5' slab three cubic feet at a time. Including the run-to-town-to-buy-more-concrete-in-the-middle-of-the-pour adventure. Or alternatively, we are bad at planning. I was in charge of running the mixer, which basically meant that I never stopped moving the whole time. As soon as one batch was done I would start the next one.
We couldn't have just covered the floor and picked up the next day, because the next day we had like a six hour drive so we could go to a wake. I woke up on the morning of said wake and thought 'oh boy, everything is pain.' I felt like someone had ran my over with a bus. A big bus. Filled with fat people. I drug myself around the house, packing clothes, and toys for our dog who was getting dropped off at the in laws for some spoiling.
Here I am, half dead, wandering around the house holding a cell phone charger in one hand and a dog bone in the other, trying to remember the thing I was supposed to do before we left (shut the windows.) Meanwhile the dog is freaking out because we were doing LEAVING THINGS and she did not want to be locked in her kennel while we were gone. She would follow me around like glue, hugging my legs and getting in the way, the whole time bombarding me with looks of terrible sadness. However her ultimate panic about us leaving usually comes in the form of her trying to stop me from putting my shoes on.
Fun.
My attempts to explain that she was coming with us failed. Also, my attempt to explain that she should pee now because her next chance would be in Winchester VA also failed. Apparently, she does not speak English very well. Also having never before experienced a car trip with a dog before, I suddenly have a much greater understanding of what it is like to go on a car trip with a young child.
Me: Sit down! Your going crazy back there!
(She has a special thingy that hooks her to the seat belt, but it doesn't stop her from dancing around like crazy.)
Dog: Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, I'm in the car and were going places! Car car car car car car! Places places places PLACES!
Me: Calm the fuck down. Thats better.
Dog: Oh no, I'm gonna throw up. NOW
Me: SHIT! ON THE BLANKET! ON THE MOTHERFUCKING BLANKET!
Scott: What the fuck are you two doing!?!
Which is how I found myself half in the backseat, twisted almost all the way around, one hand on the dogs collar one the other holding the blanket under her head. I don't think I was meant to bend that way.
I think I must have been a walking zombie at the wake, although I tried to explain that it was due to having to build a new chicken coup from the ground up and then I would have to explain that a lived on a hobby farm, and this somehow involved me doing an interpretive representation of the rooster mating dance to several of my coworkers. Shut up I was tired.
Look, I think the point here is that you shouldn't invite me to anymore wakes in the near future.
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