So the landlord's funeral week goes as follows: Landlandy and her boyfriend, who will go as Charlie from here on out, spend Monday through Friday in their lovepad. They even follow my friends and me to a bluegrass concert (They ask us what we were up to, we tell them, they show up. Perfect.). Trying to be nice, I even offer them a beer from our cooler. They say they will buy us some beers to replace the two bud heavies they take. No thanks. Keep your $2.
Regretfully, Charlie-boy high tails it out of town the morning Landlady's son is due to show up. Clearly this relationship is being hidden from the son. Slutty, yet understandable. The funeral is mellow, the lunch afterward is at the local bar. Fitting for an ex-but-not-ex-alcoholic. Tragic in a way.
*Quick aside: Landlord and Landlady used to hate winter, so we had the place to ourselves for over 8 months a year, since we live in an extremely wintery, snowy place. Now we have her once a month. Ugh.*
Landlady and Charlie waste no time in getting comfy in their newly realized mountain apartment. She tells me that they really want us to stay and be happy with the place so they are going to install an outdoor hot tub. So I say, great, do what you want, it's your property. We have a free pass to the local spa/resort, so we probably won't use it, as it doesn't come with a hot shower and mint body scrub. But do your thing, landlady.
By this this time, it is the end of October, early November. In the mountains. I figure they'll wait for summer to install their glorious spa. No. No nonononononononoooooooo. An illusive thing, that logic. Landlady calls me, and asks if I know anyone in the concrete business, because they need to put the spa on a concrete slab. Of course, I do. So I give her my poor friend's name. She calls him, he has to work. She calls around to other people. She and Charlie decide it is too expensive and they can do most of it on their own. WHAT? My dad owns a concrete business. DIY concrete = NOT ADVISABLE. Especially in winter.
Nonetheless, I come home to a poorly framed, not leveled space by the side of the driveway. Did he put base material before concrete was poured? Nope. Fine. Whatever.
Next step, they call for concrete to be delivered. They don't, however, hire anyone to help float and finish the concrete. Because they are going to do it on their own. With no tools. Really. I'm not kidding. This lady owns 4 houses, and she can't afford to pay someone $100 to properly install a concrete slab?
Lucky for my curiosity, Clif has the day off while this is all happening. So my second-hand account from him still makes me squeal with a special kind of angst reserved only for those who have been long abandoned by reality and left in the cold by their own braincells, or lack thereof.
The concrete truck driver shows up, asks where the concrete guys are, and Charlie fills him in on their plan. The driver pours the concrete and then promptly calls our friend (whose name I had given landlady the week prior), and our friend calls Clif and asks if this is really happening. It is. Clif and Anthony help landlady and Charlie after observing the epic failure.
Keep in mind, it is snowing. Ideal conditions to NOT do concrete work.
Anthony tells them this. Their solution ends up being an indoor/outdoor heat lamp on top of the tarp that is now covering our sweet sweet concrete mass. Why the heat lamp? Because they are only in town for one more day, the hot tub is sitting in the driveway, and they really want to get the hot tub put on the concrete slab the following day. Anthony advises them to wait for at least a week. No. This won't do. It must happen tomorrow.
So Bumble & Bumble have extension cords everywhere, in the snow, powering a heat lamp designed for tabletops at outdoors summer parties. It's top-heavy, we live on a lake, where there is wind. Yes. The fire danger is significant. However, the gods of all things holy spare them for the night.
Next up, moving the spa onto the concrete slab.
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