Watercloset

September, finally. Grey day, keeping the heat moderate, but the humidity heavy.

D wanted to fix the wonky flush handle this weekend. Friday, it went from wobbly to whoopsy. Local hardware only had a cheap replacement with plastic components, so we headed for Home Despot. Universal one, all metal, more expensive, but nothing significant when considered over many years. D got it all attached and working with almost no swearing at all. I first assisted.

The handle turns up, rather than the more usual down, which feels quite normal to me. D wants to put up a sign for guests, saying "Lift" with an arrow. I think an elaborate Victorian font and a pointing finger would be ideal, and he agrees.

And I got thinking about blessed curses. Forced to hold a worklight for my angry father in the cold winter garage as he worked on the car and cussed me out. Unpleasable bastard. Which makes my current work, including adjusting lights for cranky surgeons, holding, handing, preparing, seem like such a doddle, easy. Same situation, but shouting is rare, and I'm allowed to swear a little as well. I try not to, as a professionalism thing, but I have at times.

Not that I thank my father for being a damn bully, but I learned the kind of patient stillness of assistance. Used it for art modeling as well.

Just as the army, awful and upending, brought me into contact with people I'd never have noticed before. Their clothes or make-up would have warned me off. So, I found lovely people everywhere. Learned to look past costume and decoration. Taught me never to excuse myself, just do the damn job, because no one gives a crap about my excuses, only if the job is done. I learned how to succeed there, because they made it very difficult to quit.

And thinking about some good choices, sometimes made in youthful ignorance. Not to kill my father, not to even actually try to be a professional actor (I would have hated the life, and the business) to join up, to go to nursing school, to stick to D, never to get pregnant, get a cat, buy a house with a garden. The list of bad choices are longer, of course, but I'm not interested in dwelling on my host of failures.

Scraped more paint, one more day of that, some caulking and hammering down of nails, and I should be able to paint. Moved the compost pile, picked a poor place for it early in the summer, and finally changed it.