Just after I begin painting, I always remember that I don't know how to paint.

Painting looks so simple it ought to be instinctive. Dip brush in paint, let excess run off, apply brush to surface and sweep back and forth. I even bought a couple of high-end, angle-cut brushes, one for oil-base and one for latex, the kind that are so expensive their package bears an RFID tag.

Still, as I paint, I get lines in the finish, drips where there's too much, and streaks where there's too little. I go back to fix them and just make it worse. This is even after learning hard lessons about primer, which I finally started using even when it didn't seem necessary. Still no good. Even the primer goes on wrong.

Someone will probably lecture me about holding the brush at the proper angle, or that I put too much paint on it, or not enough. Fine. You try getting it just right in a 2" channel between a window and shutter frame.

Painting shouldn't be so difficult. I remember seeing a can with directions for using a roller. It said to roll a big W on the wall, then roll across it left-right. Why not an M? Or a Z? Something about that W told me they were making things too complicated.

Of course, I could look up an expert on the Web. But that's not an option after I've opened the can, stirred the paint, selected a brush, and begun the disaster. That's when I remember I don't know what I'm doing, but I feel compelled to finish anyway.

Some people do this with relationships, so I count myself lucky.

i slept seven hours straight last night. A parenthood record! Only because no kids were in the house. Awakened by the sound of a flushing toilet. Or a dump truck several blocks away, not sure which. Also bereft of pronouns.

Yesterday Mom called from her assisted living to ask if I planned to grocery shop. I said I was headed for Big Box Supercenter that night, and what did she need?

"Can I go?"

The true motive disclosed. No matter how hard the staff works to keep the place interesting, it bores. She just wanted to get out for a little while. So did I, with the house so empty. So we did.

Big Box gave me the usual Brady Law treatment over my allergy pills, with a twist: Now when you pay with a credit card, the touch-screen invites you to spy on the employees. "was the cashier friendly? yes/no." "did your cashier greet you? yes/no."

I wonder how many clerks have noticed the way customers' eyes dart up at them since this little program began. I couldn't tell; to me, they seemed as indifferent as always. Always!

Anyhow, I didn't answer. That's some lame-ass supervision. Get out and see what your employees are doing, managers.

over the weekend, i caulked the new windows; mowed the front lawn; fixed the gutter guards; cleaned the lawnmower; sold the futon; repaired the ladder; and fixed the shoe bins.

And for all the tools I've invested in, for two of these jobs I defaulted to the simian's most effective discovery: the stick.

It cleans the space behind the gutter guard.  It digs out clumpy wet grass from crevices in the mower. And it's disposable!

I have another tip for you knuckleheads who try this stuff at home: Clean uncured epoxy from your fingers with acetone first, then wipe it off. Do not soap-and-water. Water accelerates the setting of epoxy. DAMHIK.

step 1 for the day was to fix the folding ladder. I got a 7-footer free at a garage sale because nobody wants a busted ladder. (I know; "free ladder" sounds like "free sushi." Where's your sense of adventure?) It was actually in pretty good shape, as long as you didn't mind the second and third rungs rocking under you. (They rest on a steel support rod, so they won't actually snap; they just feel funny, and ladders are only funny when a cartoon character walks under them.)

Why not just go get a new ladder? Price. I'm guessing lawsuits have driven liability sky-high for manufacturers, so ladders cost way more than the materials and workmanship that go into them. I can't bear to spend that much on something I use so infrequently.

So I got out the buzz saw and replaced the two steps thusly.

It's not hard. You just cut a 1x4 the same size as the broken step and wedge it into place. The metal rod under it provides the safety net.

My friend Matthews had just told me a story about a neighbor who climbed up a huge extension ladder to work on his second-story guttering, then fell to his concrete walkway. Years later, he's still in some sort of care facility. *shudder* I'm undeterred from climbing my restored seven-footer, but doubly cautious about where I place it. I almost think a helmet would make sense, too.

the point of climbing it this weekend was to clean the gutters and reposition the screens so I wouldn't have to clean them so often. That side of the house is dwarfed by an elm that dumps several different kinds of debris all year long. Currently, it's twigs, early-autumn leaves, and what appears to be dirt. I'm serious. I don't know where the dirt is coming from, but it lines the gutters as if the shingles were shedding mud.

The screens are useless against the dirt, but I thought I might keep other junk out by wedging them under the shingles instead of between the outside gutter lip and inside backing board. My camera's acting up so all you'll get is this black-and-white.

Now the screens have a dome to them. Looks pretty industrial, but it doesn't show in the front, so we'll live with it.

The shoe bins have become an ongoing reclamation project. These are flip-down cabinets I placed in Wolf Dog's room so we could wear slippers in the house and switch to shoes upon exit. They're well-engineered and flip easily open or closed, but the hinges were made of plastic about 15 percent too weak. So the they break in a different place each time I fix them.

We're way past warranty, so I've devised ways to make them last. Here's an aluminum rod I cut and positioned to keep the hinges from collapsing inward.

This last rupture occurred when Wolf Dog got excited over an impending walk, reared on his hind legs like a horse, then came down on an open bin. snap. My fault; I knew he'd do that, and should've kept the bin closed. Broken-out fasteners, three of them.

Lots of epoxy and washers fixed that. For preventive maintenance, I added a support rod to Squeeky's bin.

Someday these fixes will be noted as how American ingenuity overcomes Chinese shoddiness.

by the end of the day, Wolf Dog was giving me his you-owe-me look, and I had to acknowledge how few predators I'd had to fend off on his watch. I loaded him into the Explorer and we went off to the Plano dog park, which isn't as grubby as the one at White Rock Lake though it's a big drive. We used to go that far to roam the Connemara Conservancy; it's been closed more than a year while they try to figure out what to do with all the dog crap. (They say the closure is to study how the meadow is holding up under "use," but they mean dog crap. Pile after pile of corn roughage and fish guts. That's what most dog crap is, anyway, because that's what's in dog food.) So we all have to wait while they decide how they're going to to ban dogs. I know it's coming; they're just waiting until everyone gets used to doing something else with their dog.

I used to carry the leash around with me, but other dogs kept running up to me and wagging their tails under the impression I was about to take them for a walk. Snacks, too; I quit bringing them because the inevitable bloodhound would single me out and follow me, nose-to-pocket, until I closed the gate between us.

Wolf Dog duly rewarded, I came home to a blue norther that dropped temperatures about 20 degrees overnight. That means falling asleep to the consoling roar of the gas furnace. Nothing puts me out so quickly as that, knowing that my temperature will be looked after by a little blob of mercury rocking back and forth in a tube wired to a thermometer. That, and lots of gaseous CFMs coursing through the hall closet. Autumnnnnnn.

I welcome autumn (which sounds more poetic than "fall"), as it means more darkness before dawn, when I do most of my writing. But the cool means that soon, the Feds will resume their annual regulation of bedtime, and I'll be tapping in daylight. Still, the solitude is what matters.

Wife and kids are home again now. And life resumes.
 

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:54 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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