ABOUT THIS BLOG

As the editor of Fine Homebuilding, I spend my weekdays trying to produce a magazine that will satisfy 300,000 of the most demanding builders, both professional and amateur. As the owner of a 200-year old Cape in Connecticut’s Litchfield Hills, I spend weekends working on my house.
 
Each activity invariably informs, and complicates, the other. In this blog, I’ll offer observations from both worlds -- publishing and building -- with the hope of providing some useful or at least entertaining insights.

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Fri, Aug 10 2007

Sleeping in the bathtub

I caught our dog, Zack, sleeping in the bathtub the other day. I’d like to think it was because I had just recaulked the tub and he admired my work. But in fact, I didn’t do a very admirable job. Caulking is right up there with painting in my book. I hate doing it, so I don’t do it very well. Or maybe I hate doing it because I don’t do it very well.

Despite every attempt to clear my mind in Zenlike fashion and lay down a smooth, continuous bead, I invariably lay down a bead that looks as though I had the hiccups while I was caulking. Then, of course, I wet my finger (with saliva) and attempt to smooth out the caulk, which I never manage on the first pass. So I wipe the excess caulk from my finger and smooth again. At this point, I’ve pretty much removed all the caulk I squirted out in the first place and have to start over. I briefly consider saving myself some time and effort by squirting the caulk directly into the trash can, but not even my cynicism goes quite that far.

We once published an article titled Silicone Caulking Basics in which the author, Brian Zavitz, admitted that while you can tool caulk with the back of a spoon dipped in soapy water, he preferred to use his finger and to wet it with saliva. He went on to say: “I talked to several manufacturers of silicone caulk, none of whom recommend a licked finger to tool their caulk. All agree, however, that the licked finger is in widespread use and that there is no major health risk involved.”

I eventually finished caulking the tub, convinced that I had done a horrid job and that I would be reminded of my ineptitude with a caulking gun every morning when I took a shower. Instead, I’m reminded of a truism in building (my friends will insist it is a truism of Kevin): When you’re working on something, hard up against the limits of your own skill and with your nose 6 in. away from the result, minor imperfections will be magnified out of all reasonable proportion. Later, you will hardly notice them.

So I don’t notice the caulk joints when I take a shower. Instead, I notice all the dog hair in the tub, and I wonder how soon the drain will slow to the point where I have to get out my tools and remove what Chuck Miller once referred to as “a hairball the size of a pork tenderloin.”

By the way, my dog is a long-haired shepherd, and I think he lies in the tub on hot days because it’s cool in there.

 
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