Wednesdays are often my time to watch and then write about a TV movie, but much of today was lost to conversations with my sisters. I’d been on the phone with the middle one for 87 minutes — the running time of a typical Lifetime flick — when Crankenstein trudged in late. Earlier there’d been a lengthy conversation with the youngest.
In the interim, Felix sent me a text: “How do you find Will Smith in the snow? You follow the Fresh Prints!” Whether he’s unaware of what’s unfolding around him or merely indifferent, I couldn’t say — our parents might withhold things if they’re worried about his anxiety — but I dutifully laughed at a punchline he’s repeated countless times since we were kids. (His preferred humor is typically much darker. Our mom’s been known to mutter “sick bastard” at his jokes.)
That’s a meandering way of saying the review is delayed, but two more should be posted by the end of the month. The other item on today’s agenda was to prime the brownstone birdhouse.* Naturally that meant my left hand was egregiously uncooperative, so I stuck to easier tasks like sanding and gathered painting supplies from the basement. Many were purchased when I bought my first house, which brought back memories of things I took for granted 12 or 13 years ago that I’d struggle with today.
My first order of business after getting the keys was to yank up the carpets and expose the original hardwood floors. Then we removed tack strips from the living room, bedrooms and hallway. My ex helped with some of it, just as she helped with some of the painting. I pried off the ugly baseboards and painted new ones, which my dad cut and installed as we caulked and filled in nail holes behind him. We replaced eleven doors — one exterior, the rest interior — and put two coats of paint on each of them.
All that work produced a wealth of trash. To save money I loaded our car with everything we removed or replaced, often after cutting it to manageable sizes, and tossed it in the dumpster behind my parents’ business. It took so many trips, and I vacuumed the car so many times, but each time I felt inordinately proud of the progress we’d made. When Crankenstein and I sold that house, I could barely use my left arm and paid a handyman $1,100 to do a series of small, easy jobs.
Even now, on levodopa, I can’t imagine how much longer it would take to do everything that was so easy during those first few months of homeownership — or how much shoddier (and more dangerous) the work would now be. My days of painting anything bigger than a closet, hallway or bathroom are probably over, and maybe that’s part of why I want to build the lighthouse and its accompanying cottage; to prove I can still do things, just on a smaller scale than before.**
* The manufacturer calls it a brownstone but I think it’s technically a row house. As such, I might paint it in a colorful San Francisco style as a nod to several of Crankenstein’s closest friends from medical school, one of whom threw our wedding shower.
** Pun intended.