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the kind of inflexibility
Wednesday, November 2 2016
I drove into town this morning with an appointment to meet up with a roofer guy named Paul to see what could be done about a pair of leaks the boys in the attic apartment had detected during our recent trip to France. First, though, I went out to Home Depot to get some longer quarter inch carriage bolts and a number of quarter inch lag bolts so I will have what I need when it comes time to repair that other garage door at the Wall Street house. While I was near Miron Liquor, I also got myself a half gallon of cheap gin and a litre of Lismore Speyside single malt scotch (the cheapest single malt they had on hand).
Unfortunately, the landlord keys were all in Gretchen's car, and she was down in Orange County giving a pro-vegan presentation in a high school, so I had to arrange with one of the attic tenants to let me in. Fortunately, everything worked out, Paul arrived a little early, we looked at the leaks and the state of the slate and Paul explained how the work goes. Sometimes you go to fix one shingle and the shingle next to it breaks and so and on and on until you've had to replace a bunch of shingles. That's all well and good, but his price is $175/hr. That sounds like a lot, but then again, not many people know how to work with slate or are willing to walk around on such a high roof.
The day was sunny and warmed up quickly. I had a reasonably productive day in my remote workplace. [REDACTED]
My boss Da was disappointed by how little planning had gone into today's weekly fundraising database meeting. But I thought it was a success anyway. It gave me a chance to see two different fundraisers use the tool and explain their various needs along the way. Da grumped his way through the whole meeting, expressing the kind of inflexibility that just gets in the way when dealing with the kind of people who work in fundraising. I tried to explain all this later, but I don't really think I was making enough of an impression.
At some point I painted a painting of a tiny landscape. It wasn't based on anything except, perhaps, memories of the autumnal French contryside. There aren't great fall colors in France, though the poplars do turn yellow and there are creeping vines (ones that closely resemble Virginia creeper) that turn bright crimson. Here was the result of today's artistic effort:
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