My project list was nothing fresh this weekend: Finish the Window Trim, the weekend project that has become a saga of blog posts and may yet expand to include therapy sessions.
My mission was to compensate for the fact that the oldest (of three) window frames isn’t plumb, and at the top extends past the wallboard. I can’t easily explain the idea I was attempting: it would take a labeled picture at least. And it wouldn’t matter, because it didn’t work.
The first setback was the realization that the rasp I purchased to grate away some wood was still in the trunk of The Guy’s car. And The Guy was in Las Vegas. Unwilling to spend another $16 on a second rasp, I figured the cutting wheel on my Dremel might suffice. A few passes into the job I smelled something. Was the Dremel getting hot? A thin curl of smoke alerted me that what I smelled was, in fact the ancient dry wood scorching. So much for the Dremel.
Also, so much for my idea: besides the very eminent danger of catching my house on fire, a little more exploration showed a new problem for which my fix didn’t account. Foiled!
A couple hours later I had burned through two reciprocating saw blades, my arms ached, and I was just under 1/2 way finished with the wood removal on the first window. It was past dinnertime. Defeated, I followed in the footsteps of such adventurous notables as Hemmingway and James Bond and headed for a bar, where I soothed my stone-tight shoulders with a Sazerac and pretended to read while eavesdropping on drunken hipsters.
Maybe next weekend.