We’ve had a plan for the last two years to turn the front part of the attic into a guest room, and with my daughter and Eric’s daughter and her boyfriend all coming for Christmas, it seems imperative to move the job along. Eric’s been working wonders up there this past week, fitting a ceiling around rugged old beams and stones. It’s especially challenging because everything is going off at bizarre angles, as I guess old houses do.
I try my best to help out but the truth is I am hopeless. If there’s a low-hanging beam to bang into, most likely the beam and my head have become so well-acquainted they’re barely speaking to each other anymore.
Even supposedly risk-free tasks like handing over a box of nails or screws expose my true calling as a bumbler, with nails scattering and me knocking over a broom when I bend over to pick the nails up. The broom inevitably hits a chair with a cup of hot tea on it and – well, you get the idea.
My history in sheetrocking began thirty years ago in a dank basement on St. Mark’s Place, where a gang of us pulled together to build a clubhouse called Stinky’s. That place only lasted about three weeks, but it wasn’t due to the quality of the workmanship. Eventually we joined forces with lower Manhattan bar Tier 3, as detailed in this article by Andy Schwartz.
Maybe I just peaked too early.
This woman is dangerous.