Pin me to the wall

Pinterest is ruling my life. Or is that ruining? The number of projects currently underway in my house is well out of hand. No matter how much progress I make, the construction zone keeps growing instead of shrinking.

It always starts so innocently too. Mama was pinning around and found a picture of someone's living room. They had put up big bookshelves floor to ceiling on either side of a big window and built in a window seat between them. Our house just so happens to have a very similar spot in our front room. She asked if I could make such a thing, and because I'm not very bright, I said sure. It was painted white, which means the wood is a bit cheaper and any mistakes would be hidden much better than if it was meant to be stained. I could do that.

I bought the wood, because if it was going to be easy and not terribly expensive, I didn't have any excuse not to. Of course, it was only once I had a garage full of wood that I looked more carefully at where these things were going to have to go. There are two electrical outlets and a furnace duct that would be covered if I just slapped the cabinets into place. That seems a waste, so now I have to move them. I am not an electrician. I have built houses and furniture before, but the most I do with electricity is swap out the occasional switch, and even then, I have to be prepared to be Tasered by my own house.

To install the cabinets properly, I now need to finish building them, paint, move the electrical wiring, decide if those wires will power lights in or on the cabinets and work that out, cut out the flooring and baseboards where everything will sit, and then move the units into the house from the garage. They should fit.

We had been talking about putting a new gas fireplace in our family room to replace the old ugly thing that consumes loads of fuel and produces precious little heat. This spring, shortly after I assembled the bones of the cabinets for around the window, a pipe in the wall beside the fireplace developed a small leak, only noticeable because of the mold it produced in the carpet. So, the carpet has a big piece cut out. The pipe and wall were simple enough to repair and repaint, but it created a cascading effect. Might as well do the fireplace now, before we replace the carpet. Since we're apparently doing that room now, the patio door needed to go too. More carpet was cut, more drywall was repaired. A new fireplace is easy. I just call a man and promise him riches, virgins, possibly my firstborn, and he will come install a new, efficient fireplace that should actually heat the room. You don't want to know what I'll need to do for the additional trim package.

Actually, even that easy part isn't that easy. Before the man comes to put in a new fireplace, I have to hang drywall in the closet that houses the unit. That little spot that no one ever sees has to have gyproc covering all three sides, floor to ceiling. Then once the man is gone with all my money and most of my dignity, I still have a wall that clearly used to have tiles, a hearth, and a mantle stuck to it. Those things have clearly been torn off. Mama is pinning again, so I'll be learning masonry very soon. And how to sob quietly so as to not disturb anyone. I keep having nightmares I'll come home one day and the doors will be torn off the kitchen cupboards to force a kitchen renovation.

Throwing waffles

We were broke when we married. Lots of schooling and not much training. I dropped out of college and took a dead end job, she stayed in school. If that job hadn't come with so much overtime, we wouldn't have made it. We scrounged dimes to rent a VHS movie and we would walk to save the gas. We donated blood as a date (Mama's idea) because, hey, free cookies.

Trips to the grocery store in that state of affairs are nerve-wracking. Bread, milk, eggs, a bit of ham for sandwiches, not much more. We ate a lot of pancakes and grilled cheese sandwiches. I was turned away from donating blood once for being anemic. But, as Tevya says about Motel and Tzeitel at the end of Fiddler on the Roof, "They are so happy, they don't know how miserable they are."

Our first weekend at home after our honeymoon, I made waffles for breakfast. I don't remember how it started, but I threw a waffle at my bride. She probably dared me to do it. It turned into a ridiculous game of trying to catch each other off guard with a flying waffle, or to get it down the other's shirt. We ran around laughing ourselves silly. That first place we lived was a dank little hole, but our memories from there are of mostly good times.

Money or no money, newly married is newly married. We had no television, no internet, just a library card and each other. We're still happy together, though we have more things. If we aren't getting along, I can always throw a waffle at her and we remember when we only had each other and it was enough. It still is.

Been and gone

Standing, listening, unable to look away, to mutter practiced words of comfort, not sure how to leave. He’s dying in that hospital bed. A son holds his hand, crying, trying not to be embarrassed of his tears for the gray crusty man gasping there on the bed. His hair and beard have long been gray, but now his skin matches. There isn’t anything left to be done but wait. Oxygen in, piss out, morphine drip. Hope is gone. His wife is already a widow, waiting to grieve.

I said nothing. I squeezed his wife's hand, bowed my head, and walked out into the night. He was gone by morning. 

Less than four weeks from diagnosis to death. Husband, father, grandfather, friend, chain smoker, mechanic, grump, perfectionist, cancer-ridden. Gone, and we are poorer for it.

Submit

Submit. Like they were demanding a way of life rather than confirming your credit card details for your purchase.

Not my will…

Submit. Leather whips and pudgy men in latex suits pretending to be furniture. Women strutting in impossibly high shoes, their clothing held together with miles of unnecessary laces.

Not my will, but…

Submit. Say “uncle.” Sleeper holds, arm bars, and half nelsons, the smell of rubber, the slap of sweaty skin on the mat.

Not my will, but thine…

Submit. Sturdy women in plain ankle length dresses and running shoes, armfuls of babies, resolutely avoiding eye contact with the world.

Your will be done…

Submit. Preacher says he has a plan, he has the whole world in his hand, don’t worry about your life. Easy to say when the things you really want haven’t been withheld. Ever. Not for long.

On Earth…

Taken isn’t worse. To have and lose hurts more than the ache of never having. But that ache… The pain of loss dulls with time. That ache stays with you. It’ll kill you, just like the slowly boiled water kills the frog. Either jump out and risk the fall, dying all broken and withered, or keep struggling until your blood boils and your heart explodes.

As it is in Heaven.

Hug of the decade

It was the most awkward thing I had ever seen. It should have been simple; a man should be able to hug his son without looking like he's trying to shag a cactus. He was a millionaire (if that means anything anymore) who remembered fondly every dime he had brought in the same way most people remember a favourite aunt. His son, on his 25th birthday, worked for dear old dad learning the trucking business from the shop floor up to driver, presumably soon enough into the office. Hard working kid, if a tad entitled. He would take any load any place, but he might make an unauthorized detour on the way. He'd fix his own equipment, but he  might take tools with him from the shop, and he might complain too loudly about little things. Nice kid, if a bit arrogant.

The old man had, according to the company legend, built a sailboat back in the 70's, which he sold to finance the purchase of an old trucking company. Not that he knew trucks, or how to drive them, only saw an opportunity and hired people to do the work. Equipment was scrounged, stretched, and over-used. Nothing was to be thrown away. Trucks, trailers, chains, employees, use it until it falls completely to pieces. Duct tape and wire and scabbed on pieces of steel kept most things on the road far beyond what reasonable expectations or safety concerns would allow. All in service of another dollar.

Predictably, there had been a failed marriage, doomed from the start by long hours and four tight fists. She had her own company, counting other people's money, and in the end they had two grown children and lawyers with new summer homes. It was a topic best avoided. The daughter only called for money, though it was hard enough to get she might might have had an easier time with a second job. The son worked for his dad, impatiently biding his time, waiting to inherit the kingdom.

So it was that I witnessed the worst hug of the decade. Wealthy, clueless daddy had clearly wandered through a hardware store the day before, hoping for something to jump out at him, and so presented his son with a torque wrench for his birthday. Present unwrapped, Dad went in for the embrace, and there was a long moment where the son didn't understand what was happening. He eventually realized what was expected, and moved to assume the position. Neither of them knew where they were supposed to put their heads, their torsos, how long to hold on. Whose arms go on top? A couple pats on the back and it was finally over. Dad looked proud of how it had all worked out, son stood awkwardly saying thanks for the wrench, and I sat, embarrassed for them both.