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How wet am I?
How am I wet? Let me count the ways.
I am wet in my hair, which has been washed.
I am wet to my skin, which has been soaked deep in a clawfoot tub.
I am wet with the waters of the Woodrow Avenue storm drain.
I am wet with two hours of light rain blown in across the Monterey Bay.
I am wet with the slurry spit out by my tile saw as I cut over a hundred tiles at a forty-five degree angle.
(not a sonnet, oh well. Maybe I'll return to it if I want to waste time later)
What I have learned about the cheap tile saw (I call it my "easy-bake" tile saw because it looks like a toy):
The bed is not by any stretch of the imagination made of stainless steel. It rusts if you look at it.
The water reservoir must be topped up after every second cut.
The pusher must be cleaned and oiled after every third cut.
The slurry will build up to an eighth of an inch in the water reservoir in about twenty cuts.
The tile saw runs best when it is spitting water at the greatest rate.
The tile saw will spit lots and lots of water all the time.
The floor will get wet. No amount of towels will prevent this.
I will get wet. I will get soaked to the skin within ten minutes of operation.
I will never figure out how to prevent all chips and funkinesses.
I will live with all these things.
I am wet in my hair, which has been washed.
I am wet to my skin, which has been soaked deep in a clawfoot tub.
I am wet with the waters of the Woodrow Avenue storm drain.
I am wet with two hours of light rain blown in across the Monterey Bay.
I am wet with the slurry spit out by my tile saw as I cut over a hundred tiles at a forty-five degree angle.
(not a sonnet, oh well. Maybe I'll return to it if I want to waste time later)
What I have learned about the cheap tile saw (I call it my "easy-bake" tile saw because it looks like a toy):
The bed is not by any stretch of the imagination made of stainless steel. It rusts if you look at it.
The water reservoir must be topped up after every second cut.
The pusher must be cleaned and oiled after every third cut.
The slurry will build up to an eighth of an inch in the water reservoir in about twenty cuts.
The tile saw runs best when it is spitting water at the greatest rate.
The tile saw will spit lots and lots of water all the time.
The floor will get wet. No amount of towels will prevent this.
I will get wet. I will get soaked to the skin within ten minutes of operation.
I will never figure out how to prevent all chips and funkinesses.
I will live with all these things.
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There was a beautiful thing I saw for sale -- $600 -- with a pump for the reservoir, stainless steel sliding bed with a pusher and clamps so you never had to get within a foot of the blade while it was moving, and you could cut tile that was tiny and you could cut tile that was huge, and you could adjust the angle in three dimensions.
That was beautiful. But though this is my third tile project in four months, before that it was a few years, and before that it was more years: the big job I did on the bathroom is about to celebrate its fifteenth anniversary (it was part of the post-Earthquake stuff we did -- "as long as we have to nail the back of the house back on to the rest, and reattach the plumbing, why don't we tile the bathroom and get a low-flow toilet?").