OK. I'm exhausted. I'm sore. I'm ready to relax a bit before tearing into the house. What does this mean? Must be time for the mother to torture me in some way.
Weather-stripping. Why not?
I bought it weeks ago, never got around to it, and after peeling the bow from the wreath on the door for the jillionth time, she's now ready for it to go up. So I began doing just that.
"No, no," says the mother. "Lawrence said to put it here." Here being the inside rim where the door lays against the woodwork. That can't be right. The door won't close if I do that.
But the mother was insistent that this is where Lawrence said to put it. So I did what she said. And the door wouldn't close. Big surprise.
And I spent the next two hours tearing it back out and scraping all its little remnants off and then putting white tape over the now damaged and still very sticky surface to keep the door from sticking to it.
Tomorrow I will tackle doing it the way it should have been done to start with. Right now, I'm still tired and sore. I'm spent from the sheer frustration.
Perhaps I'll call it a very early night.