Throwing in the trowel

Ok, so I formally retract any previous statements about being cut out for this sort of work.

Standing there yesterday looking at my carefully measured out wall and realizing that somewhere along the line my level was greatly skewed, I cracked. There's something so horrible about ripping out an entire days work. Not to mention that there must be some sort of something funky in that bathroom because I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening puking my guts out. I'm sure it has nothing to do with all the mildewed and moldy crap we pulled out of those walls last week, or all the mortar dust filling my lungs.

So one wall is nearly complete, the other two are going to be done by someone else. I don't know who yet, but it sure as hell won't be me.

After my puking rampage ended last night, I spent the remainder of the evening on Heidi's porch nursing a beer and soaking my ruined hands in epsom salt. Word to the wise, which I apparently am not, WEAR GLOVES! The mortar ate holes in my hands that ache and burn. I'm still picking cement out of wounds today.

If EVER I tell you that I want to lay tile again, you have permission to bitch-slap me. Repeatedly.