Nutter-butter...

Sadly, I did not take a photo of the door before I started working, but here is a cropped one of the entire garage:

I did take this close up just after I started working that shows the buckling paint:

There were so many places where the buckling exposed the raw wood underneath it.  But the buckling was so severe, so fragile, I could not just ignore it and paint over it.

So I started scraping ... and scraping and scraping and scraping.  Eventually, I learned about a heat gun, which made the scraping easier.

And scraping.  I did most of the work at night, when it was cool, wearing my headlamp and waving my arm before the light sensor of the garage flood light.  I have 10,000,000 scraping progress photos, but I thought I would jump ahead in my photo story.

Eventually—after replacing the glass I broke, learning to make miter cuts, replacing the inner frame, battling the screws of that odd pull handle, and puttying the worse of the holes—I was ready to paint.

I now have a GREEN door!

A GREEN door that looks just as lovely at night!

You could say all this started with that raw piece of wood on the front of the threshold.  That piece was missing when I bought the house.  So, when the contractor was here—before the nightmare of the kitchen started—I asked him to add that piece of wood when he was installing the automatic garage door and the deadbolt to this door.  Since the end of May, I would stare at that bare wood—whilst sitting on the back steps awaiting Amos to conquer his fear of grass anew each day—and think that I should paint it.  But the way Myrtle's mind works, I thought I should paint the entire threshold and if I were painting the threshold, I should address the deplorable state of the door.

I did.
Over weeks and weeks and weeks.
The first home improvement project where I did not half-kill myself in the process.

I will admit that, after fetching the erythromycin from the pharmacy (I'm on my second dose and counting the minutes until the pain and the swelling in my abdomen subsides), I was tickled pink when I pulled into the garage and saw the back side of my GREEN door, which is also GREEN.

I worked hard to choose an old GREEN, a GREEN that would have fit with the house when the door was built.  When I was painting, I was struck by just how old the door looked, even after all that work on my behalf.  No matter how much I scraped and sanded and puttied, I wasn't going to end up with a door that looked new.  That is okay.  That really is how it should be.  Now, it looks like an old door that was not neglected.

When I finished on Friday evening, I kept the door open to ensure that it dried, fretting about leaving it unlocked for so long.  It was still sticky on Saturday, but I locked it overnight.  Today, it is just fine and does not have any paint transfer.

I was very surprised that the hardest part of the job was painting.  My hands have hurt for two years now painting.  I oft have to duct tape the brush.  But now they go numb trying to hold onto the brush.  If you had told me the hardest part would be the finishing, I would have laughed at you, thinking of all that scraping and sanding and sanding and scraping.  But it was.  I am already dreading scraping and painting the wooden screen door to the basement entrance that Firewood Man repaired for me.  I know the scraping will be much less and far easier, but the painting would be the same.  Priming and two coats.  SIGH.

Still, I have a beautiful door, eh?

Friday night, I took a bath (to avoid getting the heart monitor wet), washed my hair in the sink, and bathed Amos.  He. Was. Filthy.  I actually had to wash him twice!  He was tuckered out. I was tuckered out.  We both collapsed into the GREEN chair.

So, Saturday, my goal was to get the laundry done by the end of the day, mostly before I went to the symphony.  I met my goal.  I thought that meant that I would be languishing the entire day today.  However, I was in such pain and so swollen last night, that I could not wait until Monday to pick up the erythromycin.  Off to Target.   And then back out to get one more item and to rehearse going to Sandra's son's new school because he needs picking up this week.  I get so confused driving to the places I know, I wanted to practice going to his school, lest he be left alone in the parking lot for hours as I struggled to figure out where it was./is.  I actually drove there three times.  Now, I just need to remember to drag myself out of the house at 3:15.

I fetch him.  I collapse in the GREEN chair. I bug him with questions about what he's learned.  He uses my wi-fi to play games I do not understand.  Occasionally,  I nod and hmmm to his comments about the games, comments that I also do not understand.  Mostly, I just rest whilst he plays.  And Sandra gets to stay at her class.   Small work on my part, but helpful to her.

Two more days of monitoring. I have tried to include all the activities that are normal to me during the two weeks.  It is my fervent hope some good data is captured.  Whether the answer is something cardiac or just more nerve wonkiness (Dysautonomia), I believe this was a good decision.

Just as biting the bullet and admitting I need to take the erythromycin is a good decision, no matter how I figure it out how to pay an additional $43 every two weeks.  It is truly a quality of life sort of decision.  I am still very thankful for the insurance appeal victory.  The insurance cost is less than half what I paid in cash when I first tried the drug.  I am even thankful for finding myself back in the depths of innards misery, for it showed me so clearly what benefits I was gaining from the medication.  Sometimes, partial help is true help, as valuable in its own way as a complete solution.

Last week I did the "other" lab work.  You see, I had to collect my urine for 24 hours.  I was sooooooooo embarrassed just picking up the large brown paper bag.  It was a lot of work for me, collecting and storing it, remembering what I was doing and to only go to the bathroom in one place.  Even so, that brown paper bag was too attractive to me to return.  You see, I use brown paper to send packages, re-using the stuffing from things I have received to make my own packages.  Postage goes by size and weight, so I do not like to use boxes too large for what I have to send.  Brown paper is also good for odd sized packages.  The paper bag was premium  brown paper.

So, I slunk back into the lab with my large orange jug, hoping to drop it off and skedaddle back out before anyone noticed what I was carrying.  There was a line.  A long line.  I had to sit in my chair for 13 minutes before I could hand over my jug.  The jug I hid beneath the chair and tried to pretend it did not exist.

I used the paper bag to wrap up a small gift for my step-mother.  Rarely do I come across something I know she will like.  And I know that this first birthday without my father, who celebrated his just two days before hers, so they always celebrated together, will be difficult.  So, I bought her a present even though I gave up present giving when I gave up most non-utilitarian spending.  [Giving away my possessions doesn't count as gift-giving.]  It is blue, which is her favorite color, and used for a favorite hosting activity of hers.  She is the very opposite of a hermit.  Anyway, it was rather odd sized, so I created a flat, long box using cardboard (I keep pieces of that from things I've had shipped to me) and duct tape and then made a brown paper wrapper.  At least the USPS still takes brown paper packages ... just don't use string.  I also wrapped the gift, even though I gave up wrapping eons ago unless I had something to re-use.  For some reason, I started getting overwhelmed with the natural resource waste of wrapping paper.  I re-use wrapping paper and shipping materials a lot.

The door ... much of what I used was what I had on hand.  For example, I have been saving these tiny nails for sawtooth picture hangers even though I had no more of the hangers.  Those nails were perfect for securing the glass bead board trim.  In fact, so very much of my home improvement projects here have been done with materials I've moved with me.  Purposely kept and moved.  In my clear outs, I have gotten rid of many supplies, donating them where I could.  But useful things I kept.  Like those tiny nails.  And I am always careful—if not somewhat obsessive—about finding a way to re-seal things as tightly as possible, so things like primer and paint and putty can be used again and again and again.  I even wash out $0.99 chip brushes until they fall apart.

Since my coverage fears were slightly exaggerated (I have a wee bit of paint left for any nicks or scratches that might occur), the only real costs of the door was the paint and the pane of glass I broke.  I look at the paint and it makes me smile.  I am trying very hard not to count the cost of the paint.  To think that GREEN paint on a door is something that is okay for me to have.

Over the years, I have been a miser, because it is always been just me caring for me.  I tried to make good financial decisions.  After I was unemployed for some 18 months and ended up tens of thousands of dollars in debt, I worked many odd jobs even after finding a job to pay it all off in a year. Other than a mortgage, I have never carried debt since.

As I noted yesterday, I have only ever taken one vacation.  I have done things for myself, such as breaking down and getting a flat screen television, when my old box TV was still functioning, because I was struggling with my sight.  Even then, I saw that as more practical.  I bought clothing for work, but as I spent more and more time at home, I saw buying casual clothing as splurging.  I've had the same shoes for decades and the same bike shorts since I was 15 or so.  I have bought computers and I bought an iPod.  That might have been a first truly frivolous, non-justifiable purchase.  That or the antique typewriter that one day I thought:  How many more years are you going to wait to get one?  So, I bought one for me ... I think when I was close to 40, if not that year.  Although, the typewriter could be sold for at least what I paid for it, if not more.  All of the antique things I have kept could sell easily, such as the vintage cameras or the leather binoculars from WWII.  Maybe not a miser, but definitely penurious.

But more than penuriousness marked my fiscal choices.  A lot has to do not seeing myself as being worthy enough for things like vacations and such.  I hear such comments still ringing in my head.  Oh, you shouldn't do that.  I think of the things this man whispered to me as a child, telling me that what he was doing to me was what I was born for, what my life should be, and so he was helping me.  I believe him because his words made sense.

Amos.  Well, spending $400 on a puppy dog when you are unemployed, ill, and on your way to figuring out that you just might never work again.  Yet what he has given me already is worth $40,000, if even you could put a price tag on him.  I heard words about spending money on a puppy dog.  But I ignored them.  I chose something for me.  It is rare, though, for me to ignore those words, those voices in my head who do not much like me.

I am still, honestly, learning just how poor I am.  I am living on 1/3-ish of what my salary was, with even more medical expenses than I had then.  My housing is just 1/4, so there is a tremendous trade-off there, but the math doesn't add up each month.  The pro-bono advisor said I have such slim margins in my budget, such an austere look at what to spend money on, but I have to shave more here and there.

Thinking, though, how much I savored Rachmaninoff, how tickled I am over having a GREEN door (I feel wild and wicked for not painting it white), and how easy it has been to cook with the new pots and pans—I have yet to actually sit in the chairs since my guests for today had to rain check—I want to also try to remember to make choices for pleasure, too.  I want to show myself that I am worth it.

While at Target, I dipped into my mostly un-used micro-annual-allowance for clothing to buy pajamas. Real, actual pajamas.  I have not had those is eons either.  But I cannot sleep in the tanks and bike shorts anymore because their pressure hurts too much.  I've been sleeping in odds and ends.  Tonight, I will sleep in honest-to-goodness women's pajamas.  Yes, they are old fashioned, with long sleeves, cuffs, and a collar, but they are also soft and feminine.  And they were on sale, $4.99 off since I first saw them and thought them rather nice.

I wonder ... just how long it will take me to stop feeling guilty about having the first new pajamas in about 15 years.  I wonder ... just how long it will take me to stop thinking of all the ways I could have better, more frugally spent that $20.  I wonder ... just how long it will take me to stop viewing my life (and my body) as something to be endured, rather than enjoyed.

The thing is, I used to be able to ignore the guilt, to not be subsumed in it if I ordered Lebanese pick-up on the way home from work.  When I last got a collection of Taco Bell gift cards, I blew my way through them.  Now, I think about how Taco Bell (my $2.97 meal) is really a luxury and something I have to balance even more if I am going to try and do things such as wear real pajamas and go to the symphony.  I have not even made my way through half of the first card and have three more in reserve. It is hard, changing thoughts.

One thought I have is:  We are not to care for the morrow, because God will provide for us even as He does the ravens in the field (or something like that).  But we are also to be good stewards.  How does one do both?  Not worry and be a good steward?  What is the difference between a good steward (in my situation) and a bad?  Are pajamas good stewardship?  Should I be trying to think about quality of life stuff? Or is that all not saving each and every penny possible for the never-ending and will one day be overwhelming medical bills?

In sum, you could say that all the thoughts in my brain are a jumble of law of one type or another and Gospel of one type or another constantly at war with each other.

Or you could just say I am nuts.
Caryl called me Nutter-butter the other day.
Hi, I'm Nutter-butter Adams.

Were I British, I would definitely be a nutter.  And I do love butter.  SIGH.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!