Caulking Chaos

I watched Six Degrees last week; I won't watch it again. I found it irritating even though I really like Jay Hernandez, Hope Davis, and especially Campbell Scott. Brothers and Sisters didn't do it for me at all, so I'm also scratching that one off the list.

It's strange how little TV I'm watching this season. Studio 60 (I liked it A LOT), Veronica Mars when it starts, Gray's Anatomy, The Office, and Battlestar Galactica when it starts. Oh, and I'm still recording and watching The View every day just because Rosie makes me happy. I've found that watching really good TV makes me much less tolerant of TV that falls short of my judgment of what's excellent. You know? After barreling through the second half of season two of Battlestar, I'm thinking about it so much that last night I dreamt that Lee Adama got onstage drunk and sang "Shiksa Goddess" from The Last Five Years. It's penetrated my psyche in that deep and bizarre a way. (Don't read the rest of this paragraph if you don't want to be spoiled.) There were a few episodes in this batch that I thought were downright lame (especially the one about Apollo and the hooker) (and I wasn't crazy about the one about Scar) (and don't even get me started on my intense dislike of the Apollo / Dualla "relationship"), but there were parts that knocked my socks off. I lay on the couch and wept during the scene described here. Tears dripped off my face onto the throw pillow. It was just one of the finest things I've ever seen. I LOVE THIS SHOW. And I cannot wait for October 6.

I had a lot on my plate this weekend. My boyfriend worked each day, so I vowed to be productive. Friday night, I cleaned my house and went grocery shopping. On Saturday morning, I took my filthy dogs to the vet for a bath, went shopping for do-it-myself supplies, went on my "long" run for the week (38 minutes around the neighborhood), picked up the dogs, and prepared dinner. He arrived, and we went to the coffee shop and had muffins, coffee, a walnut rugelach, and some frozen lemonade and played a game of Scrabble during which he almost broke 400 points and I broke 300, so it was a good game. That night, we ate this pasta and this salad, and YUM. (Note: I made the pasta sauces in advance as suggested; I only used one tablespoon of chile paste in the pasta instead of two and it was still very spicy; I used orange juice concentrate instead of Grand Marnier because a bottle of it costs $35; the salad dressing is extremely thick, but do not be frightened; and I toasted the almonds first because I think that brings out their flavor much more. Both were great recipes, I thought.) We went out to a show that night where there were lots of young manorexic boys with beards and tight t-shirts and ate vanilla ice cream with strawberries and white chocolate macadamia nut cookies.

On Sunday, I re-caulked my bathtub. Which was my do-it-myself project to end all do-it-myself projects. My old caulk was nothing short of disgusting, and I figured, how hard could it be? I'll tell you how hard it was. It was very fucking hard. The old caulk was misery to scrape off despite using a gel that is erroneously labeled as a caulk "remover" (HA!), my weird carpal tunnely knuckle that had been doing so much better turned the size and color of a plum, and I probably did permanent damage to both the tile and the tub by scraping like a complete out of control lunatic. Once I scraped off all I could scrape (the caulk between the tub and the floor was particularly un-scrape-able because it was all mixed in with the cement grout of the ceramic floor tile -- horrible), I sprayed everything with Tilex, let that set for a while, and scrubbed everything with a toothbrush until I felt like all of my fingers were going to become dislocated. I let that dry for a few hours with a fan and then set forth with the caulking gun, thinking that nothing could be more difficult than the preparation. Right? Wrong. So very wrong.

I wanted only a very small hole in the top of the caulk tube, but I had to keep cutting it bigger and bigger in order to reach the top of the canister so it could be pierced with a nail. Even when using a really long nail, I had to go down so far that my hole, instead of being pencil-sized, was more like dime-sized. Yeah. It was so big that the caulk was flowing out of the tube when I wasn't even squeezing the gun, so I had to hold it between my legs upright and wipe it with a paper towel constantly or it would spew forth like a tube of toothpaste that was being stepped on. So much caulk gooped out when I was dispensing it around the tub that smoothing the line was just ... unholy. Nightmarish. I'm not even sure that I made good seals. I got silicone caulk all over myself, all over the tiles, all over the bathtub. I even got it on my glasses. And I forgot to fill the tub with water, which supposedly you're supposed to do, until I was almost finished. So I just filled it then and hoped for the best. In short, I've decided that time is more valuable than money and that I would have rather paid someone $1,000 to do this job and do it right, and then I could have spent my Sunday sitting at the coffee shop with my new book from the beautiful Grace that I already love instead of undertaking this monstrous project. Do-It-Myself -- I'm over it. Never again. Never again.

I finished All the King's Men, and it's exquisite. (No spoilers to follow.) It's wordy and sometimes rambly and takes a long time to get where it's going, but when it gets there, whoa. It's fantastic. It's strange because once I got really into it, I stopped thinking about how it's based on my state and true history and just got into it as a mighty fine book. This book is as much about ideas as it is about action, and I liked the ideas a lot. Jack Burden can be very annoying, and sometimes you just want to tell him to shut up and get to the point already, but the way he, as a narrator, contemplates life and goodness and sin and the past and the future is sublime. I highly recommend this book. It didn't win the Pulitzer Prize for nothing. (Read what the ever-wise mo pie thought about it here.) (Also spoiler-free.) I haven't seen the movie yet; the reviews have not been promising. Fred Willard, who was Roeper's guest reviewer this week, gave it two thumbs up, though! And if it's okay by Ron Albertson, it's probably okay by me.

(Here's a link to the article in The New Yorker profiling David Milch and featuring quite a bit about his relationship with Robert Penn Warren. In it, Milch says, "Mr. Warren spread out pretty much all the literary artifacts of American culture for me to study, as part of my working for him on that history of American literature. And in that I found the refraction, the perspective that I needed, to give me access to play the cards that I'd been dealt." Fascinating! Fascinating.)

As for running, I've come to my senses and have decided to forego training for a marathon and train for a half-marathon instead, along with a few friends. It still seems like an impossible distance for me right now, but it seems less impossible than a marathon would be. As my sister said wisely, half-marathon training doesn't take over your whole life like marathon training does, and the distance is a great achievement while still being short enough that it does not make you feel like dying when you are doing it. And I'm all for that. So ... I'm going to finish up one-hour-runner (I'm starting week 6 now) and then figure out when I should start officially training for the half-marathon. Woo! My mom, as she did when I told her I was training for a 5K, sort of laughed disbelievingly, like she was humoring me, like, "...okay. Good luck with that." Not in a mean way, just in an "I'm so sure, I'll believe it when I see it, for I know you, my lazy child," sort of a way. But I will show her! I will. I will show everyone. Most of all me.