progress not perfection

Oof. After yesterday's mishap involving a hammer (my small one, thankfully) and my finger, today didn't go all that fantastically well either.

I managed to get the last two pieces of wonderboard cut, drilled and hung in a timely fashion, then I cut up the fiberglass cloth to do an industrial version of seam-taping. Think drywall, but with fiberglass resin and cloth instead of tape and mud. Yeah, this bastard ain't gonna leak because of anything I did, that's for sure.

I put fiber putty over any cracks and seams. I then put resin and cloth and more resin over the seams, and I dabbed resin on each screw head to prevent any kind of chemical reaction with the adhesive or rust or other nastiness. Then I went around the bottom and sealed the gap between the top of the metal tub edge and the wonderboard with more fiber putty. That thing's goin' nowhere. Heh. Make me bang my finger, will you? I'll show you. The house could tip over and come apart in a raging flood and the shower enclosure would float away on its own. Like Chrsitopher Robin in his inverted umbrella. Only smellier, much smellier.

Yesterday's efforts were time-consuming but rewarding. It was great to work with Kevin and he was genuinely cheerful to do the nastiest and most menial tasks. I'd love to be able to hire him full time. What a great kid.

We got the demolition debris hauled off (460 pounds!) and most of the wonderboard hung. I finished that up today. No Kevin, though. Not in the schedule and not in the budget. I'm at that stage now where I can do one thing while I am waiting for another thing to soak, dry, cure, or whatever, but there just isn't space for two people to be doing things at the same time.

Since the fiberglass resin was reluctant to cure, and I didn't want to stick tiles to it while it's still tacky, I opted to cut a big hole in the floor and see what there was to see on that front.

Luckily, the plywood was rotted only along the edge of the tub and out maybe a foot or so at each end where the shower curtain allowed splashing. The plywood came up relatively easily, exposing a mish-mosh (why am I NOT surprised??) of planks below. The planks at the edges of the tub were a little soggy, so I set the clamp lights on them and left for the day. They'll be dry enough to address in the morning. I have this marvelous stuff from Minwax called Wood Hardener. I don't know what it is, but it is a miracle product. You paint some of this stuff on punky old wood, and it hardens it like fiberglass. Put some Bondo on it, sand it once or twice and paint it. Nobody will know the wood was ever rotten. I'm going to put some of that on the wood before I go for lunch and then deal with it when I get back.

The plan for tomorrow is to put up tiles first, douse the punky wood, go for lunch, come back and lay the floor and maybe do something with the walls. One needs some plywood and both need paneling. We'll have to see how far I can get. Tiles and floor are absolute must-do things, though. Wish me luck.

And here's a picture of the fingernail progression. I'm not entirely sure it used to point over to the left like that.

I don't want to talk about my day

Kevin was marvelous. Lug this, tote that, help and be cheerful. Plus he told be about the 25-cent hotdogs at Richdales. Sweet.

Didn't get all done today I wanted, but still got a lot done. Here are the two walls of the shower with wonder board up and insulation behind the long wall.



And here is me after making two cuts of that cement board with the abrasive masonry blade.



And here's my finger. I am acutely aware of what a strong, steady pulse I have. Yep. Gonna lose that nail.

Oh dear

The official color of this tile and tub is called "seafoam green." It will go down in the annals of bad taste with "harvest gold" and "avacado."


This is what greeted me when I peeled back the plastic that had been duck-taped over it to prevent more leakage into the downstairs bathroom.

Yeah, it was pretty bad.

Then I started peeling stuff out of there and it looked like this:

I don't know if it shows really well in the photo, but the tiles were stuck to drywall. Not plywood, drywall. Not blueboard drywall, generally used for bathrooms, but cheap-ass 3/8 inch drywall.

On the wall with all the faucet bits, there were three horizontal boards that the stuff was nailed to. Not screwed, nailed. And they weren't two-bys, oh no. They were one-by-something-cheap and they were spaced nearly 30 inches apart. Yeah. really nice.

On the long wall, the drywall is covering up the rotted out beat up horsehair plaster and lath wall behind it. Look closely and you'll see the various layers of nastiness.

And finally, my lungs hurt just looking at the next picture. What you are seeing in the bottom horizontal piece of sheetrock peeled back at the left-hand corner to expose the fungus that had obviously been thriving between it and the plaster. Yes, I do have a mask. But it still makes my lungs ache to even look at it.


The red stuff in the hole? That's a kind of stiff paper air barrier that was put between the two-by-four wall studs (this is an exterior wall) and the plaster and lath. There is nothing between it and the exterior siding but air. That's right: no insulation. Oh, yeah. Nice stuff. There is some weird insulation kind of stuff on the outside of the wall studs but inside of the sheathing and clapboards. It looks like shredded newspaper or something contained in a brown paper pillow pack kind of thing. Very weird looking. I'll post that picture later. For now I am tired and tired and tired and tired. So I am going to bed. I've been to three meetings in 24 hours and am remarkable peaceful for a person who is so far from home, girlfriend and puppy and who discovered this morning that the floor next to this tub is also rotted and will have to be replaced. I'll go into more detail on that tomorrow. For now, here's a peek:


Now I am headed to bed. Tomorrow will be here very, very soon.

sometimes, it's just showing up that does it.

I got up this morning without panic and moved around and got ready to leave for Massachusetts. I didn't rush, I didn't freak out, I just found some socks that fit, got dressed, packed everything up, kissed my girlfriend and the puppy and headed on down the road. I topped off the tank, hit a burger joint drive-through and kept moving. Somewhere around Freeport, I called a friend and chatted all the way through the York toll both when the signal went crappy. A little while later I called home to report I was almost to the exit and traveling was fine, only to realize shortly that I was just approaching the big bridge between Maine and New Hampshire and I probably had another half hour left. Oops. Wrong toll booth there. Hampton was ahead, not behind. Shit.

So I got here, unloaded and went to check on the job. It looks like I might have a young helper for part of the thing. Lady's grandson is eight, small for his age, and hot to help break stuff. Cute little guy, very polite, and willing to help, such that a child can offer. Together (?!) we shoveled the path to the back door to allow access to the back stairs, then he helped me bring up some tools. First trip, I handed him three 36-inch crow bars. Their combined weight was probably half what he weighed. Undaunted, he wobbled off into the chill with his clanking load and he returned shortly for more. I offered him my tool bag (which I am sure weighs more than he) but relented and gave him a five-gallon pail with some odd tools and an extension cord in it. He wobbled that up the stairs with me behind him this time. I carried the tool bag, two collapsible saw horses and something else. We agreed that it was enough for one night and stopped there.

I think I'll be picking up a set of children's safety glasses tomorrow and maybe some wee little work gloves as well. He's so damned cute it nearly makes me want one. Nah, maybe not.

So I am in the home of my early sobriety and I went to a meeting tonight. I got there early, because that's what you're supposed to do, I found a meeting list book for the area and figured out where to go and when to be there, and met some neat people. Good recovery in that room. Some of the early and active folks there did all the right things thinking I was either new to the program or maybe new to the town and introduced themselves and welcomed me. Then I explained that this particular Sunday night meeting had been my home group back in 1985. Eyebrows went up all around. Ohhhhhh. OK. So you must know... and indeed, I did know those old-timers.

Only one I knew came tonight, a guy named Fred. Blessed, sweet man. He must have had ten years back when I was first coming around, so he must have something between 30 and 40 years now. Wow. Gave me a big hug and his eyes sparkled when he said hello. There's no reason on God's earth that we would know each other outside of the halls of AA, but he greeted me like I was a long-lost high school chum and it was grand. The only thing I can compare it to is like veterans greeting one another after a long absence. We've all been through hell out there, it's better here, but life can still be tough, and ain't it grand to see you again. I'm smiling now when I remember it.

Later on, at the break, I asked if he might know somebody, a young kid perhaps who would be reliable and would benefit from a couple of hours of under the table, day labor cash money kind of work. He thought not a minute and went to a young guy in the back row, chatting with friends and holding a cup of coffee. Sturdy-looking kid, reddish hair, pale skin, blue eyes and a ready smile, probably of Irish stock. My kind of people. Kid's name is Kevin. I'm batting a thousand. Of course it is. The only other alternative would have been Patrick or Seamus.

Fred introduced us, told the kid to take care of what I needed done (I think he might sponsor him) and then explained to me that Kevin's in a local men's half-way house. Those guys are just one drink away from going back to jail or out onto the streets. They're living good, but very humbly. The cash will be most welcome in his world.

Now normally there is no way I would have been able to find and hire a guy, part-time, for a few hours, with any assurance that he wasn't going to rip me off within four hours of landing in town. Especially a town that is not my own any more. But I was there, and Fred was there. And Fred has never caused me harm before, nor I him. I trust his judgment, and now that I am older and wiser than I was early on, he has no compunction about sending a young man, newly sober, off in my company for a day. In fact, I am confident that he knows that I will talk program and recovery to his young charge while we work. It might benefit the kid. I know it will benefit me to work with him, both in the sense of the job and in the reminder of what alcoholism can do to a person. Nobody gets into that halfway house because they've eaten too much chocolate. They get int there because it's the last stop before jail (or maybe on the way out of jail) and it just might save their lives. And they know it. And I will be grateful for the help and grateful for the company.

And it never would have happened if I had not been at the meeting tonight. Had I planned to ask somebody at a meeting to recommend a guy to hire? Yeah, but having a thought kicking around and having a plan ready to execute are two very different things. In fact, it was only at the break that I remembered that I needed a guy and thought to ask Fred to recommend one. I was not there to hire anybody. I was there for a meeting. And I got one and it was wonderful. And I got a bonus too - help on the job when I'm going to need it.

The speakers tonight came up from someplace that begins with an M. I can't remember. But the old guy who spoke had a lilt of the old country (think green) in his voice and a tweed cap on his head and he spoke of his first meeting in Marblehead, Mass back in 1962. Before I was born. Been sober ever since, bless his heart. I spoke to him at the break and he knows a guy I know from meetings back in Bar Harbor. You send him my love, m'dear, said the old guy. He was beautiful. I will send my friend the old guy's love when next I see him.

Again, I am smiling as I type. I cannot put into words what the fellowship of this recovery thing is like. There is a bond, a connection that goes straight to the soul and the heart and holds fast and hugs when it is there. I cannot put into words the loneliness of an alcoholic still drinking, either. There is a hole that goes straight through the soul and the heart that cannot be understood by anyone who has not felt it. The meetings I go to fill that hole, they don't just dull the ache, they relieve it, make it disappear. Not all at once, maybe, not for everyone anyway, but it does it. It makes no sense from a clinical or medical model, but it works. It is a rare, rare thing when I come away from a meeting feeling worse than when I went in. They fill me up. Like prayer and meditation fill me up. I don't ask why any more. I just say thank you.

Blessed be.

It just feels... off

Today felt like Sunday. All day. Very strange.

Tomorrow I leave for the South (Massachusetts) for work, which means it ought to be a Monday, which means today should be Sunday. Only it's not. And it's been screwing with me all day.

I never got out of my pajamas today - slept in, make two batches of bagels to use as sustenance for me while I'm gone and for L while I'm gone. She loves egg bagels, and the pumpernickel ones, too. Sure feels like Sunday there.

I've done all I can to to prepare for tomorrow's trip. I've made lists and lists and more lists and really all there is for me to do is just get on the road and do it. Actually, there is a ton of stuff that is in limbo right now. Like the suitcase can't be fully packed until morning when I pack my toiletries kit and my good toothpaste. And when I pack my good C-Pap. No way I'm using the spare for a whole week - I'd be unfit to drive coming home.

I'll have to pack the usual last-minute things too. Some grocery stuff, the laptop, cell phone, camera and all associated chargers. I have to pack my big book, my daily reader book and my serenity. I'm going to need it this week.

And honesty, I'll need it because the job I am going to do is a tough one that will require all of my brains and brawn and tools and every bit of delicate touch I can muster. It's going to be a fussy one, that's for sure, and I will be hard pressed to get it all done in the time I have allotted. I may have to pay a guy or two to haul the debris downstairs and out to my truck, but that's ok. It'll be worth it if it helps get things done in time.

This post is really something of a space-filler. I need one for today and I don't have much to talk about, so you get whatever falls out of my forehead onto the keyboard. I have a list of profound, deep, thought-provoking topics stuck to my computer, but I just haven't got the gumption to start one of them right now. Perhaps tomorrow after I get settled in.

I'm itchy to get going now. I'm ready. Emotionally, tool-wise, everything is pretty much ready to go.

But I'll stay. I think I'll take a nice long shower now before bed. Pack my good new slippers in my suitcase so they'll be ready to go. Enjoy a snuggle with L and the diminutive pooch. Maybe watch a ball game. The Pats are out of the playoffs (an 11-win team is out, but an 8-8 buncha schmoes is in?!?! That's a crime!) so I don't much care what happens now. But I'll watch the big guys chase the ball up and down the field. Maybe make some popcorn. Enjoy the last 16 hours or so I have left here before I leave my bed and my home for a week.

Matter of fact, I'm going to go do that now. See you tomorrow from down south. I'll be the one skulking behind the gymnasium.

Borrowed anxiety

It is amazing how a little outdoor work first thing in the day can clear the senses and sharpen the mind. Or at least convince me that I am better off INdoors writing clever and brilliant (have I told you about my aunt?) things on my secret blog. Two more days until I'm back behind the gym for a week. Urk.

But I wonder how much of this stuff is really good, healthy or worthwhile. I can prepare for next week by doing some pretty basic stuff - making a schedule, planning my meals and my meetings, making sure I know where the Sunday night meeting is so I can get phone numbers and make plans for the next night, that kind of thing. But more than that is really borrowing anxiety.

In the world of mental health professionals, the term "projection" is generally used to describe what happens when a person perceives his or her own feelings/issues/agendas in another. An angry person tends to see others as angry. A jealous person tends to see others as jealous. You get the idea.

In the world of 12-step recovery, we talk about "projection" as more like living in the future, almost like anticipating a scenario or outcome, but more so. We live in the anticipated situation, missing out on what's going on around us in today's world. We get so worked up over what we think is going to happen and how we're going to respond to it and how that's all going to play out, that before we know it, the day's gone and we've accomplished nothing besides this new hole in our duodenum. Fat lotta good that exercise did us.

This is sort of what I have been doing about the coming week. I've been fretting over it. Only that's all I can do, and so far it has accomplished not a damned thing, save given me a case of the grumpies and a mild headache.

In meetings we talk about the Serenity Prayer, and it's a good one.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.

--Reinhold Niebuhr

In meetings, we generally only use the first stanza. The rest of it talks about concepts that lead to debate and philosophical and religious conflict (sin, the afterlife, a male deity, etc.) that not all members espouse. So we keep it simple. We ask for serenity to accept, courage to change, and wisdom to know A from B.

So this week coming up - what about it is beyond my control - a thing I cannot change? Well, everyone else's behavior is beyond my control, as are their feelings. The job itself is beyond my control, in a sense. I do not know what is behind those punky tiles, and I cannot know until I get down there and start digging. Therefore, fretting about it from here does not good, so I must let it go. I must let go of the fussing I've been doing regarding my aunt and her behavior, thoughts, and feelings. I cannot change them, ergo, I must accept them. (Note: accept does not mean endorse or approve of, it merely means to accept, without judgment.)

What can I change? Me. I can change how I think and how I feel and how I behave and what I say. I am about the only thing I have any control over, and even then there are things beyond my reach. My heart beats without my authority. My lungs operate without regard to my wishes. The chemical processes of my body march dutifully on whether I give permission or not. My realm of control is really in my heart and in my head. I can choose how I am going to think, feel and behave. Doesn't mean I always remember that. Doesn't mean I always make wise choices. Just means that I'm the only one accountable for that stuff.

I had a sponsor years ago who advised that I hold a mirror up to my nose so it touched. What I saw in that mirror, he said, was what I had authority over. Everything else, was none of my business. It could be my concern, but it wasn't my business to go meddling in. He was right.

I've been stewing all week about that damned tile job. I've been fretting about the tile, the client, the wet plywood, the tools, the stairs, money, and all kinds of things. Beyond making a couple of pretty good lists, what action can I take that will contribute to this situation in a productive manner? Not a thing.

OK, then. It is time to let it go.

What can I do today that will help my world? I can go to the bank, I can pay the rent, I can finish that shelf I'm making for a friend, and I can make a list of clothes and personal stuff I am going to need for this trip. Beyond that, I must let it go so it does not consume me.

An old-timer once said that worry is like rocking in a rocking chair. It keeps you busy, but you don't get far. It is simplistic, but it is true. Once I have done all the preparatory work I can, I have to step back and let go. I will get there when I get there. I will deal with stuff as it presents itself. In the meantime, I will enjoy today and what it has to offer me.

Blessed be.

Urp.

Good god. It's day one of the new year, I had all kinds of wild ideas about profound and enlightening blog posts for a month, and all I've got right now is and overly full tummy and breath that could knock over a buffalo.

This evening's meal was a delayed New Year's dinner. After baking that foolish cheesecake yesterday, I had no ambition to address a sirloin roast. Frig that. I thawed some steak tips that Quinn did NOT get into and we had stir-fry. Nice and easy. Perfect.

But the roast was still in the fridge, and since it had been in the freezer once already, I couldn't really put it back, so I had to do something with it.

Remember last week when we stopped to pick up groceries that we could not find here? I got some pancetta and some prosciutto, plus the sirloin roast and the now-famous steak tips. Well, I also got this great little deli tub of peeled whole garlic cloves. Gawd I love those things. When I peel garlic, I generally smash it up first to get the skin off that way. They don't slice pretty afterwards, as a rule, and tonight I wanted pretty slices.

So I sliced and slivered up maybe a dozen or more cloves of garlic and laid out probably two dozen slices of the prosciutto in a large mat. I sprinkled the garlic on the mat, dusted it well with coarse ground black pepper, and wrapped that bad boy around the boneless sirloin roast (about three pounds). I tied it up with string jut like a brown paper package ("when the dog bites... when the bee stings...") and tucked 'er into the oven at 325 for about 80 minutes.

Once the spilled bits of cheesecake ash-ified themselves on the oven floor (oops), it stopped smoking and eventually the whole house smelled vaguely of bacon, beef, and garlic. I stuck a thermometer in it after a while, figured that rare to medium-rare was about right, and took it out. We boiled some potatoes and mashed them with butter and milk, threw some frozen string beans in some water and brought 'em to a boil and called in New Year's Dinner. It was simple, moderately decadent, and extremely filling. The prosciutto crisped up very nicely and the garlic slivers cooked up to that marvelous sweet, squishy stage just before they get bitter, and the pepper got the two talking to each other in very friendly terms. Oh it was grand.

Sorry, but the picture is lousy tonight. Camera was misbehaving and everything looks fuzzy. Could just be the excited jitters from the aroma.

Bon Appetit