We got a huge heap of knotty pine that we were told was tongue-and-groove, but which Scott assures me is actually shiplap. I think BOTH tongue-and-groove AND ship’s-lap are perfectly tawdry and suggestible names for types of wood cut, and would be thrilled with either, but when I tried to make a joke about tongues and laps I was silenced by “this will make very fine wainscoting once we sand it and cut it down to size.”
And it will make very fine wainscoting. Even though now, by association, I can’t think of the word wainscoting without giggling and going all red-faced. I know only a few words funnier than tongue-and-groove, none of which I can mention here without attracting the wrong kind of crap-benefactor to this web site.
But it’s very nice and we’re looking forward to you coming around to help us rip the nails out, and sand it, and cut it down to size. This is from Agi, with a thousand thanks for saving it from the fate of Erik’s fire-happy maw. Here’re a few of them lined up, with the mountain of more in the background.
Distance traveled: a few miles
How it got here: well, that’s not as interesting as what happened this weekend. We went to the future home of the Crapshack to clear out some space for the Pre-Shacking Trailer, which involved cutting down a few overcrowded little birch trees that are in the way. And let me tell you, I suffered what might have been some sort of manic fit, thinking that maybe I’m the kind of asshole who poisons frogs in his pond because they’re keeping him up at night. The kind who moves next door to the dairy farm because she loves the bucolic idea of the farm, without realizing that, you know, it smells like shit. Or the kind who cuts trees so that she has a place to live.
(I can mail you that Harpers piece if you don’t have a subscription)
But I’m no dummy when it comes to trees, and I know what happens when they’re overgrown. They start out ambitiously growing up with no support, in a futile attempt at a fresh breath of sunlight, then get sad and lose their fight for life and start to bend over and droop. And it’s best for everybody to thin some of that crap out. But still, you try taking a bowsaw to a birch who was never given a chance. And try doing so with a three-day hangover. In the rain that’s just about to turn to snow. And tell me you wouldn’t shed a tear.
That’s what I thought — heartless bastards. Let’s get back to dirty puns on shiplap, and pretend this little intimate divulgence never happened.
Later in the week, stay tuned for the kitchen sink. Or parts thereof.
