For anyone with even basic construction style know-how and the proper tools, the job would have required half an hour, at most.
I, most certainly, am not one such "anyone" and any tools which I own are part of The Martha Stewart collection.
As I looked over and attempted to decipher and comprehend the grouting instructions, I realized the first thing I lacked was a gigantic mixing attachment for my drill.
Mixing things, with the exception of mixing thing up, has never proven to be one of the things that has made my very short list of talents.
Jo-Ann's Kitchenade has long since been off limits to me following an unfortunate flour flying, wall dusting, incredible amount of clean up required incident in which I had, evidently, improperly attached one of the three hundred and thirty two attachment pieces required to mix batter.
Alas, once the Kitchenade became part of our ensemble, complete with it's own dedicated spot-light that shines upon it as if it were a museum piece, the hand mixer was donated to that Jimmy Carter place.
Jo-Ann calls Jimmy's crew for pickups regularly as she is convinced that the only way to part with an item, no matter how old, unusable, out dated, thread bare or non-functioning is to donate it to Habitat For Humanity. If they refuse an item, for being too old, unusable, outdated, thread bare or non-functioning, as they have in the past, an after hours drop at The Goodwill is made.
The filling up of landfills is something for which Jo-Ann feels no personal responsibility, whatsoever, as all of our garbage makes it's way there via a third party.
All of her donating and restrictions, coupled with my own tendency to buy tools that are not truly meant for any sort of work beyond hanging a picture on the wall, left me ill equipped for grout stirring- which had even more instructions than did the ill fated cake mixing process.
Fortunately, our new neighbors had a paint stirring attachment that they, completely unaware of how very unsuited I am to take possession of any sort of tool or device, were willing to graciously loan me.
After much searching, I located the drill in a flower pot out back. I had left it there after using it to attach a few screws to the wooden fence onto which I could strand some wire for the flowering vines I had planted to latch.
Such a drill application is far more manly than using it for picture hanging. If I repeat that oft enough, I am fairly certain I will believe it.
With the drill located, I attached the mixing arm, turned the drill on and immediately felt thankful that no one else was around. The rapidly spinning mixing arm quickly flew from its improperly locked drill position and went flailing through the air like a rocket propelled lawn dart before hitting a tree, ricocheting backwards and becoming impaled in the mulch. That such things commonly happen around working men is, I assume, why hard hats and safety goggles are required at job sites.
After a much more conscientious attempt at locking the mixer arm in place, all seemed well enough to actually begin the churning process.
Step one was to add 44 milliliters, or perhaps it was millimetres or even millipedes of water to a bucket.
I was instantly annoyed. Had I been tiling in London, such nonsense would have been tolerable, I suppose, but that metric system scourge of the rest of the world has absolutely no place here in 'Murica.
I had to, therefore, go back inside and Google conversions to know the proper amount of water to add. Granted, had it given the measurement in ounces, I would have still required Google to convert the directions into something comprehensible to me, such as cups, but I would have then had only myself and my lack of knowledge to blame rather than the infiltration of a wacky doodle system crossing our borders and infiltrating our measurements.
After adding the water, which may or may not have been in the correct proportions, I dumped in the bag of grout dust, turned on the drill mixer, carefully pointing it towards an area where flying objects could do no harm, and, once assured it was properly locked in place, plunged it, forcefully spinning, into the pail.
Not unlike the unfortunate cake mixing fiasco, from which I had learned nothing, powder began flying everywhere.
Because the grout was black, I quickly looked much as I had seen so many in my family and childhood community look after returning home from a hard day's work.
That they, coal miners who had earned their appearance from a day deep beneath the earth while I, a suburbanite attempting to finish up a garden water feature, could be so equally blackened is testament to how bad are my mixing skills.
I did soldier on, though, coughing and sputtering as the dust cloud settled and the mixing arm made contact with the 44 milliounceaspoons of water.
The instructions said to mix for two to five minutes. I am not a particularly impatient person and would have been happy to comply with the directed time had my drill, the cheapest one that money could buy, been so able.
Less than one minute into turning dust to muck, I began to smell the odor of failure as the little engine inside began to overheat. At precisely the two minute mark, smoke began to plume from the motor casing.
Rising white smoke, wafting in the wind, signals not only the selection of a new Pope but also serves as a sign that it is time for a new drill.
Amidst smoke and foul burning odor, I mixed on until the lower end of the 3-5 minute parameter was reached and then tossed the poor drill onto Jo-Ann's ever accumulating pile of things for Jimmy Carter.
The next step called for some sort of flat object with a handle, such as I have often seen used around concrete pours.
The directions were dependent upon some level of basic building comprehension, which I have both confessed and demonstrated are in short supply with me. The instructions also avoided using words in favor of pictures whenever possible.
In a disturbing trend of drawings in lieu of print, except when they can squeeze in some metric system numbers, companies are attempting to be universally understood in their instructions which results in directions that are actually understood by no one. I would humbly assume that I am in the minority at not grasping such a concept due to my inexperience with all things classified as manual labor, were it not for having witnessed, repeatedly, experienced contractors reduced to temper tantrums, complete with throwing objects and using colourful language, from such DIY guides- particularly where IKEA booklets are concerned.
In any event, having no such flat, handled concrete smoothing device, I searched through the garage until I found something I thought I could substitute. In this case, I selected an old, plastic spatula, which was melted in several places from years of use, among the mound of things for either Jimmy or The Goodwill and got to work.
The 10lb bag of grout, surprisingly and thankfully not weighed in stones or kilograms, that had proven far too much for my drill, in spite of the fact that I was covered in no less than two pounds of the powder, predicted that it would be sufficient for 122 square feet of tile.
I had a grand total of 12 square feet of tile so I anticipated lots of excess and would have been more than happy to have mixed only a portion of the bag but for the thought of converting, dividing and rounding down or up.
Even with the powder greatly reduced by the cloud that had covered me at initial drill plunge, certainly.....certainly there was plenty of grout for my little project.
At less than the half way point, though, I realized that my spatula was scraping bucket bottom.
I quickly converted to something I did understand and starting scooping out batter sufficient for a crepe rather than a pancake and finished the project, having to scrape the sides of the pail, needing every last millimacrometer to fill the final crevice.
I should probably feel ashamed, or at least concerned, that I somehow forced 122 square feet of putty into 12 square feet but I do not.
In this moment, before that grout bulges, falls out, cracks or whatever else it is likely to do over the next few days, I feel accomplished.
I am even going to reward myself with a new drill and will soon be off to K-Mart to peruse the Martha Stewart collection.
Now that I know just how able I am at this handyman thing, I may even buy the next to least expensive tool that money can buy.
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