“Your head is a busy place. Those to-do lists you have. It’s got to be crowded.” My late husband, Keith, said that often — and he wasn’t wrong. His wasn’t so crowded – at least not with worry or lists. He was a man who worked hard but played even harder. He knew how to enjoy life, and I, well, I knew how to make one we could enjoy.
One of the unexpected things I miss about him: there is no one to run the lists by. No one to say, “That can wait.” “Don’t worry, it isn’t going to happen.” or “Why don’t you put that aside for now, and we’ll go out.” So, I compile lists and pick off their contents one by one.
Sunday, I took on regrouting a section of the kitchen counter.
It had been on my list for some time – the crumbs settling into the crevice the aging sealant was intended to protect. Truth be told, I had stuffed the crevice with snakes of plastic wrap – they taunted me, poking at my unsophisticated approach to home maintenance.
Sunday, after shovelling mounds of snow from my front walk and freeing the drains on the street so that the melting snow had a place to retreat, I decided to tackle the grout. Really, it isn’t grout – it’s sealant or caulking.
When it comes to the lists, I can run obsessive and impulsive. I ruminate over something I need or want to do and then, often in a snap, just do it. Sunday was no exception. I pried out the snakes of plastic wrap and the old sealant – there must be a tool for that, I thought, while marshalling any number of picks and screwdrivers to do the job. As I began resealing the crevice, I realized that I wasn’t using quite the right sealant – and my recaulking tools were in a bag I had lent to my daughter. Should have checked the supplies first.
I made a quick call to a good friend who can do all things related to home repair. She confirmed the sealant I was using would do the job – she was more worried about the depth and width of the crevice. As it turns out, I should have been, too. In the short time since I extruded the first bead of sealant, it had sunk into the crevice. Suffice it to say, it was a long day. Multiple beads of sealant, much of it stuck to my sweater, paper towel and the counter. There were rounds of resealing, rubbing off the excess with alcohol and puzzling over how to get what remained off my fingers. Did I mention the tufts of paper towel and sealant stuck to my black sweater? I looked like a large crow with the mange, unable to take flight. I’m not even sure that birds can get mange – another of my knowledge shortcomings.
And flight is exactly what I wanted to do – from the sealant, the counter, and the to-do lists to which I apparently have committed my attention for decades. I could imagine my husband laughing and later supporting my efforts and suggesting we let things be and go for a walk. “Good plan,” I replied to Keith in my head, but what to do about the gobs of sealant stuck to my fingers?
My knowledgeable friend had suggested rubbing them with olive oil and not surprisingly it worked. I de-tufted myself of the paper towels, changed my sweater and went for a walk – chuckling at the conversation I was having in my head with my spouse whose emotional presence defied the six years since he passed away.
I smelled like a salad. Kind of made me hungry. Maybe, I thought, I’ll find a tastier use for the olive oil when I get home. Cooking was something I could do with far fewer paper towels.
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