Sorry, Dad, but there are some things that I will not be able to live up to. Some things that I realise I cannot do. Some things that I cannot be.
Today, I had my ego carved out of me with a dull spoon and splayed out on my poorly-installed laminate floor. Mike Holmes couldn’t have done a better job.
Ouch.
I’ve come to the realisation (with Alex’s careful guidance) that I cannot finish the basement solo. Nor with a level of quality that I would be happy with. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, and my basement project is just one milestone along the way.
So we’ve called an expert — someone with a lot more experience and know-how. We found him through RenoMark.ca, a website that provides a list of renovators that come bonded, follow WCB rules, and so forth. Might not necessarily be Mike Holmes-approved, but it’s gotta be better than picking up some guy at the side of the road, right?
Richard is an honest guy. He pulls no punches, makes no apologies. He told me I shouldn’t have done a few things. He didn’t sugar-coat anything. I screwed up. I shouldn’t have tried to do certain things because I simply don’t know. He’s right — I rushed, and didn’t do somethings correctly. Somethings will have to be scrapped and redone.
But still — it hurt. Truth is like that. Pure truth is hard for a self-inflated ego to take. You believe you’re doing a good job. Then someone better tells you otherwise. It’s pride messing with you.
I wish now that I had found someone back last May. I wish I hadn’t embarked on this fool’s errand. I feel like I’ve let my family and myself down. And I feel like a disgrace before the memory of my father. I can hear the words of disapproval. But I’ll never have his helping hand.
Sorry Dad, I screwed up.
It’s probably going to cost almost $50,000 to do the job. Richard assures me that only a tiny portion will go to cleaning up my mess. But still, it’s a big freaking number. It’s Calgary, though — that’s what it costs here to do things right.
So now these entries will no longer be about any successes of mine. They’ll be others’. I’m okay with that … almost. It’s part of growing up.
