A good talker I may be. A good caulker I am not. I can putty, I can grout, I can drill, I can sand, and paint, too, but I’m a bad hand with the caulk gun. It looks like a toddler trying to ice a cake--festoons everywhere but where you want it to be.
A man who claimed to be a carpenter installed the bathroom cabinet doors this past week. A walrus would have done a better job. We oysters—my brother and I—are having to fix the sloppy situation. We took most of the doors off, removed half the hinges (which weren’t flush, one factor in making the doors stand inappropriately ajar when hung), filled the holes and sanded them down…for the second time. Many rude words have crossed our lips describing the incompetence of the so-called professional who monkeyed up the works. Mums has fled town to the safety of Rhode Island.
Bob and I watched a Buster Keaton movie (“College”) after we’d tired of sanding and were waiting for the oil paint to dry. Appreciation of the already-witty slapstick was aided by the consumption of certain mellowing beverages. We hope our attempt at reattaching the doors will be successful tomorrow (later today—we’re not setting any alarms). There is no plan “B.”
But there is plenty of pizza to feed our weary souls.