A(nother) lost day, pour le piano

The materials move indoors

That's how far we got last night. I sponged the puddles of dirty water off the plastic covering taped to the rolls of insulation and the 120 cm x 300 cm panels of sheetrock, wringing blackened water into the puddles all around the pallet before I peeled the plastic back. My husband was being uncharateristically (Blogger doesn't like that word, but I checked; it's spelled correctly) patient. I hoped it would hold out. He only expressed mild surprise when I said that the largest thing on the bottom was the pile of sheetrock panels.

"Ca, en bas?" he peered more closely at whatever was mummified in plastic and criss-crossed in orange tape. I nodded.

"Si grand que ça?" I nodded.

"Un mètre vingt par trois mètres."

"Mais ça vient beaucoup plus petit --"

"Un mètre vingt par deux mètres cinquante," I offered. "Je sais."

"Plus petit encore," dit-il. "J'en ai mis quand je l'ai fait la dernière fois."

Here, we were getting into dangerous territory. He was referring to the sheetrock he had glued in place when he had redone the room some years before that I had torn off and piled between the house and the sorry excuse for a garage. I nodded. Remaining nonverbal and maintaining lack of eye contact can do wonders to avoid conflict. He looked back to the pile.

"Si tu vas mettre des boiseries, tu n'as même pas à te concerner des joints."

He had guessed what purpose the 3 meter length would serve: fewer joints. Not very important, however, when you plan on installing 128 cm tall wainscoting all around the room. I had already thought of that (too late), too.

My son, appearing barefoot in canvas shoes and baggy shorts on a crisp spring evening, was being characteristically uncommunicative. He glared at the pile that had to get into the house before the next deluge.

I hate 18.

They slid the first slightly damp panel off the pile with my help, turned it on its side and carried it inside. On the way in with the third, my husband called back just as I felt the first drops of rain where I was standing next to more than 3 square meters of completely exposed sheetrock surface.

"Le ciel est noir par ici. Il va tomber des cordes. Remets la bache en plastique."

Rain. More rain. I scrambled to cover the sheetrock, placing bricks around the edge and firewood from the pile next to it on top to hold the plastic sheeting in place in case the wind came back up, too. I finished just as the sky let loose and the rain fell hard. I stood there in disbelief. All that for 3 panels of sheetrock? Was the rest of it really going to have to spend another night out in the damp? Then, it stopped.

It stopped just as my husband reappeared around the corner, followed by my son. April showers (in March) bring May flowers.

"C'est bon," he said, still uncharacteristically ungrumpy with me. "Il y a du ciel bleu par là." He indicated the direction from which all weather here comes. The west.

We got it all inside, tucked between the stair and the back of the sofa. I covered the damp ends with a towel and stuck the red cat cushion on the end so there would be a hope that people (my husband, who after 55 springs is still not fully aware of the feet on the ends of his legs) would see the corner and not trip over it, further destroying the panels that were already a little damaged from the damp.

Now, we really do have to hurry and get it all installed, including the floor, which has been sitting in the petit salon acclimating itself since last week, because I don't know how long I can stand skirting around the pile, and time is ticking on the piano delivery. I don't know how much more guilt I can stand to feel, but today, I got nothing done except another trip to the vet.

Rapide cried all morning and they told me to bring her back in. The vet would see her between two appointments. There's no question that something is obviously wrong, but what that something is is not at all obvious. The tests come back fine, and she is anything but. She can barely stand and walk. I carried her from the waiting to the examination room, which was a lot easier this week than even last week, since she weighs another 4 lbs. less, despite eating normally.

"Qu'est-ce que tu nous fais?" the vet asked her.

"Elle nous fait une vraie saloperie," said my husband when I called on my way home.

She goes back Friday for for the day.

Picking my stepdaughter up from her riding class, she asked how my day went. I explained about Rapide and mentioned that it had kept me (excellent excuse that it is) from getting anything done on the petit salon, but we'd have to really work hard this weekend to make up for that.

"Pour le piano?" she asked.

"Oui, pour le piano." I can admit that to her. She knows. Although I do prefer her father not quite think of it just that way, since he isn't such a fan of the piano as are she and I.

Me? Thanks for asking. I'm getting a cold, but I'm sure I'll be just fine. I'll just take the rest of the bottle of Lillet up to bed with me.

It isn't just alcohol; it has oranges in it.
....