The Wall

I need to go home. To London, that is. When I return there, I will be getting things ready to move from our old flat on Abbey Road to our new one just a few streets away. This process seems daunting, although when compared to our move of last year, from Belmont to London, it should technically be a piece of cake.

It should also be a walk in the park compared to the construction project that has been going on in the basement of our Belmont home, where I have been residing for the past month.
We arrived in Boston on June 15th, shortly after TeenE’s school year ended in London. Since then she has been visiting with friends and preparing for her four weeks at adventure camp in New Hampshire. I have been visiting friends and spending a lot of time in our basement.
The first two weeks we were here, it rained almost every day. Monsoon-like conditions soaked the ground and raised the water table enough that the basement walls were damp enough to grow plants suitable for the forest floor. This has been a problem for this house since before we moved in, and the former owners installed a French drain and a drywell in the backyard. The barn-board paneling, installed perhaps in the 1960’s, as well as the wood lathing holding it out from the wall had been slowly rotting and molding since then.

Last summer, as reported on this blog, with the help of many friends, I took down the paneling in the north corner of the basement, waterproofed that area of the wall, and installed ceramic tiles. This summer, the entire northeastern walls were rehabilitated. Using a crowbar, I removed the punky paneling from the floor to about three feet above, including molding strips between four and ten feet long. I scraped the wall down, removing decades of loose paint and plaster. I used a chisel to loosen areas of failing cement and discovered that some of the wooden molding had been placed directly on top of a row of cinder blocks. The holes of the blocks were just sitting open, inviting incursion by rodents and snakes. No wonder the cats always liked the basement!

The next step was using hydraulic cement to waterproof the wall’s surface. For those of you not “in the know”, hydraulic cement is a quick-drying product which uses what I presume to be a chemical reaction producing heat to transform the cement powder and water mixture into a rock-hard, impermeable surface in about three minutes. One has about thirty seconds to stir one scoop of water into three scoops of cement powder, producing a goo the consistency of cake icing. Application to the intended surface has to happen within the next two minutes. If this does not happen, the entire batch hardens into a rock in the bottom of the plastic pail and must be discarded. Note: do not attempt to answer the doorbell when working with hydraulic cement, especially if it is the UPS delivery truck with a package you have ordered on Son’s behalf as a birthday gift to the woman you are not allowed to refer to as his “girlfriend”. You will certainly have to knock the now-hardened magma out of the bucket and begin again.
After what will seem like thirty separate trips to the laundry sink to mix up the cement, step back and watch your wall be transformed into a less damp, more leak-proof surface.

The next step in Wall Rehab is to make several trips to the store which sells home maintenance and repair supplies. On the first trip, purchase enough supplies to cover the square footage of the wall so you can avoid a second trip. If you are using ceramic tiles and acrylic tile adhesive, buy just enough tiles to cover the surface, but twice as much adhesive as you think you’ll need. Also purchase pre-colored, pre-mixed grout, some trowels, tile spacers, and a “grout float” which helps you push the grout into to spaces between the tiles.

Now, once the weather clears and the basement is less damp, spend all the sunny days of your "vacation" in the basement. It will help to make a big pot of coffee at the beginning of each day so that you can provide yourself with endless refills of iced coffee. It will also help to bring a radio or other music-broadcasting device into the basement with you. A live radio broadcast will help you know what time of day it is, as the conditions in the basement will not be conducive to knowing the hour of the day or the day of the week. Playing your favorite genre of “music for home repair”, in my case, Classic Rock, will help to energize you and imbue your work with the “vibes” of the music. Turn the music UP when the vibes are good for you, for example, Pink Floyd’s THE WALL, any Led Zeppelin, or Beatles. Turn the music OFF when the vibes are not good for your project, such as anything by Black Sabbath or “Don’t Fear the Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult. (Although I do like the message of this song, it was a little too… evocative of a grim mood… for me to be fully operational.)

Once the proper musical mood has been achieved, carefully place the ceramic tiles in a pleasing and efficient pattern using the tile spacers and acrylic adhesive. Use a level to make sure your horizontal lines stay horizontal, and that your vertical stacks don’t go off-center. This last step may mean you’re your tile-gluing job takes several days. Once you have achieved your tile results, take one day off while you allow the adhesive to cure. Next, using a trowel and the grout float, press the grout (in this example, colored the Renoir-esque “Haystack” beige) onto the tiles and into the channels between the tiles. If you have used your spacers correctly, the channels will all be of similar width.

Now you’re almost done! All you have to do is use a damp sponge (proper size available on the tile aisle of the home goods store) to remove excess grout, and then spend half a day cleaning up after yourself.

Before I left, someone in London wished me a good “holiday”. I made sure they realized it was not a “vacation” per se, but a trip in which skilled manual labor would be performed on an almost-daily basis. If you are a Boston-based friend and you were wondering why you didn’t get a chance to see me during my five weeks in residence, it is probably because I was in the basement working on THE WALL.

Mystery Achievement

Mystery the cat is pleased to announce that she has been adopted by the Knittin’ Kitten!
Mary Ann came to visit her and evaluate her suitability to join the pride already in progress at her home. Mystery was at her most charming, due in part to the presence of a large quantity of catnip and Greenies treats. Despite the absence of any purring (is this the result of growing up with a dog?) Mystery was inquisitive, friendly, and even performed the treat-producing “head-butt” that cats have perfected somewhere along the evolutionary ladder.
After Mystery passed muster, it took two grown women to wrangle her into the cat-carrier, and then she was on her way to her new home in Arlington, to join Amber and the infamous Mr. Lucky.
An early morning report from Mary Ann, provided while she was driving me to Logan airport, was that Mystery was ensconced in her “safe room”, where she had spent the night hissing through the door at Mr. Lucky. At one point, she tried to hiss and yawn at the same time, and wound up choking herself.
Let us now praise famous knitters for their kind and compassionate and kitty-lovin’ hearts.

It's 8 am. Do you know where your cysts are?

I had to set the alarm in order to wake up in time for the radiology appointment. Approximately every two years, I go through the same routine. The ultrasound-plus-cyst-aspiration appointments are doled out only to those who are early risers. They are only on certain days of the week, and only at 8:15.

My alarm setting is called "Cathedral Chime" and it sounds vaguely like Big Ben, which is especially confusing at this early hour because I've been dreaming that I'm in London, but I'm actually back in Boston. We are out of coffee, so I have to get behind the wheel of the mini-van in an impaired, i.e. caffeine-free, condition. A short ten-minute ride has me at the health center in Somerville, where for the second time in a week I get to don the johnny-top. The ultra-sound technician, who has done this with me at least three times before, ushers me into a cold office. I get settled in on the table, and she says she'll be back in a few minutes. I ask for a blanket or something to keep me warm, and she brings me another half-johnny and puts it over my legs. It is supposed to be summer, so I have worn a skirt, which was not a particularly smart move.

The technician comes back with the doctor, who introduces herself. I remind her that she's done this with me several times before. They want to know if I found the cysts myself or if they only showed up on the mammogram. I tell them yes, I found them myself, that it is particularly hard to miss something the size of a grape that gets hard as a rock for a week each month and causes pressure, discomfort, and finally, pain, and that I have four of them, two on each side.

The doctor readies the needle with lidocaine and shields it from my view with her body as she does so. This is fine with me, as I really don't like looking at or thinking about needles. The amount of relief I get from this particular procedure is the only reason I am here. I practice my relaxation breathing, and she gets to work with the lidocaine as the technician pours on the cold goo and presses her ultrasound wand up against me. Even though the surface of the skin has been numbed by the lidocaine, the interior of the affected area is not numb as the doctor uses a syringe to suck the living daylights out of each cyst, and then, with a sweeping motion, sucks up the membrane. I wind up writhing on the table with a cramp in my lower back as I am unable to stay relaxed. Somehow, the combination of hearing the following statements is interfering with my bliss:

"Your cysts are very well organized". Oh good.
"This needle is so bendy, I can't control it very well".
"I'm going to need a larger bore needle".

After about ten minutes of this tooth-gritting fun I get a couple of bandaids stuck on each side, am told to avoid aspirin for another day or so, and am free to go.

A House is Not a Home.... HOT FLASH!

We have found tenants for our house in Belmont, taking a major worry off our plates.

Both TeenE and I are homesick for London and our friends there. I can't wait to return and get back to my normal London routines.

Honey Pie

If it's two am, then three am, and you can't sleep, I recommend a piece of homemade rhubarb pie and a glass of milk.

Hallelujah Chorus and Hot Flash.

Follow-up note to Vis a Vis a Visa: TeenE's two passports and her original birth certificate (with the word "Masachusetts" (sic) mis-spelled on it thanks to the Belmont Town Hall) were returned to us via Federal Express. The NEW passport contains the NEW Tier 1 Dependent Visa which expires on the last day of September, 2011. We sincerely hope that will be the last of the visa-fication for quite some time.

A Smash'n'Grab Session

Yesterday I survived the medically-sanctioned "smash-n-grab" session known as The Annual Mammogram.
I got onto the annual schedule after the Tiny Calcified Spot showed up on the films a few years back. Now everything is digital and, one assumes, in High Def if not 3-D or Surround-Sound.
For those of you who've never had the experience, you're in for a real treat.

First, you get ushered into the special waiting area for Radiology after checking in with NO CO-PAY. I've never figured out why. Then you get taken into a row of waiting rooms that all feed in to the room with the mammogram equipment. Next, you change into the attractive top-johnny, and sit and read a year-old magazine while the woman whose turn is currently happening has her mammogram. You get to listen to all of the patter between the technician and the other patient, such as "turn to the front a little more" and "hold your breath now". You get to hear the other woman go "Owwww" as the machine smashes her tender bits into a mush. The smaller the breasts, the more they have to be smashed between the cold metal plates. Please note: the plates are cold even though the powers-that-be have been thoughtful enough to train a hot-air blower on them.

Finally the previous patient is told to go wait in the cubicle next to yours, and the technician comes to get you. It's your turn to get little metal pasties marked Left and Right stuck on your pointy bits. Next you get to stand at the machine and be pressed like a lemon into lemonade. If you're really lucky, your hormone cycle is at its peak and your cysts will be good and sore as the technician uses her hand to stuff you more efficiently in between the plates. She tightens the plates as firmly as possible, and as you wince with pain, she steps behind her shielded area. Then, she presses a button and the vice in which your breast is being pressed tightens EVEN MORE. As soon as the x-rays have been beamed into your flesh, the plates automatically open up.

If you "don't have a lot of tissue to work with", as my friend K does, you might wind up with the technician's hand mushed between the plates along with your breast, as she struggles to reach the foot pedal machine-release that is now just out of reach.

Finally, you return to your dressing-cubicle and wait there in your half-johnny until the technician tells you that she doesn't need any more shots and that everything looks good and you may go. Or that you get to go down the hall and have an ultra-sound scan of the aforementioned cysts so that you can come back in a week and get them aspirated.

While on that table with cold goo being squeezed onto you, daydream about getting a copy of the ultra-sound pix of your cysts to post on the blog like people do with their fetal ultra-sound scans.

All kidding aside, this is a reminder to you all you gal-readers out there to remember to schedule your mammogram now. And if you're a guy, ask your special gal/mom/sis if she's up to date with her scans. And ask really nicely, in case she's hormonal.