Julie, 5:16

I decided that neglecting Cinnamon in favor of my bathroom was not expediting the bathroom project, nor was it helping you, gentle reader, get your daily dose of Cinnamon. So I have taken vows of recommital to post every day, but of course now my computer's monitor is broken, which just about sums things up. I will be posting on M's computer, which has an ergonomic keyboard, which however nice for the wrists, lends itself to typographical errors, so bear with me.
So, often I hear abut these phenomenal stories of superhuman strength. Like somehow, a child became trapped under a car, and then the child's father was improbably able to lift the car to rescue his child.
I have a a parallel experience, though certainly not under such dire circumstances. While starting to grout The Bathroom, it became clear that my cordless drill would never have enough torque to turn the stirrer attachment to mix 25 pounds of grout mixed with three quarts of water. Because of my single mindedness, my deterimiation to finish this project, and my pride, I wasnt about to allow the lack of proper tools deter me from my purpose. So, I filled up that bucket, I stuck my hands in that Known To The State of California To Cause Cancer mix, and I stirred, kneaded, and wrestled it like a giant unwieldly challah. I worked, mixed and massaged that giant freaking bucket of grout like a Wagu cow. And I put that grout up on those walls in a masterpiece rivaled only by Pompeiian mosaics.
And then I paid the price for two days. Yesterday, I could not, for love or money, move my right arm. Today, while sore, it is at least functional.
But I HAD to get it done.
When I related this story to my friend Cici, she told me a similar story. She related the tale of an unappealing, yet gargantuan piece of furniture her husband inherited. The piece was expensive, but all kinds of ugly. Over time, and several relocations, she asked her husband to take the piece to his office, or to stick it in the attic. Of course, since it wasn't a priority for her husband, said ugly piece sat in the dining room for a long time until Cici reached the breaking point. She took that piece, weighing upwards of 100 pounds, lugged it up a flight of stairs, and then, impossibly, up the attic access door to rest in peace in the attic. Her husband was shocked that she managed to get it there, and probably equally shocked that she didn't drop it through the attic floor, the second floor, and the first floor ceiling.
She HAD to get it done.
I remember also when I was a kid, my mother trying to prune a palm tree in the front yard. She got to working on it, and after several hours, had in fact made serious inroads into the overgrown plant, but had blistered her hands into hamburger meat.
She HAD to get it done.
I don't want to be sexist about this, although surely M would argue that it's the opposite of sexist: I see it as women willing to sacrifice for the overall benefit of their household; he might see it as masochistic work on non-urgent projects and therefore maybe borderline stupid, but I don't want to put words in his mouth. But what is it about women willing to go to such extremes, such super-womanly lengths to get a job done? Why would men never attempt such feats for their house? Why is my arm so sore I can barely feel my fingers on the keyboard?
I don't get it, but what I DO know is that my bathroom is 75% done, and I am so eager to finish, that if I could work without waking my family, I totally would work all night. So, excuse me. I have a bathroom floor to lay, and then a large cross to which I need to nail myself.