Wednesday, August 27, 2008


There should be laws passed preventing me from embarking on home improvement missions. Several months ago, I attacked the bathroom with a tube of caulk and did a passable job. But after a week of showers, the caulk turned clear and thin, pitting out in spots, allowing mold to culture under the transparent surface.

God must have been selling laziness wholesale when my genes and veins and brain and stuff were being patched together. It's so much of who I am. So I let the faltering caulk stay and worsen until its sealing qualities were as bygone as an octogenarian's virility.

Last night, I decided to try to trounce my physical makeup and tackle the job once and for all. Bootstraps were pulled and I was up, armed with a sheeth of razor blades, a pocket knife, an old dish rag, a flask of rubbing alcohol (for the mold and dirt, not my nerves), and a bottle of beer (ok, that was for my nerves).

Would you know, that thin, clear caulk defeated me. Razor blades cracked. I cursed and cursed and cursed. I spilled the bottle of beer. Then the flask of rubbing alcohol.

The new caulk blubbered out and couldn't be tamed.

At that point, I did what I always do. I nuzzle imperfection, squeeze it tightly, whispering," I can't say I like you, but I can't ever stop loving you," as I kiss its eyelids.

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