Sam's memoir in cocktails

This blog is keeping me sane. Something happens, an absurdity or a triumph or simply something I want to share - and there you are.

Upstairs, four men a'measuring. Five golden rings, six French hens. Now it's Kevin with Ed who's just back from another job plus Evan to help plus JM to command - plus right now Joe the painter to pick up piles of stuff he left here. Ed discovered the wide opening for the doors they were hoping to hang today is not wide enough - two and a half crucial inches. Do they re-cut the opening or trim the doors? Half an hour of a four-man discussion, with me checking Ikea for the size of the shelving we'd intended to put near the doors. In the end, they're cutting an inch off each door.

My lovely, dignified front hall and living room - on the right, a complete wooden Ikea bed-frame that Kevin found on the street on garbage day, and the two of us rescued. It will go on the top floor.

Three men a'measuring

The spare room

My tranquil bedroom - a reclaimed Habitat for Humanity door which is going to be cut into pieces and support the shelving in the closet.

The day is young and already my stress level is high.

Yesterday's triumph, though - my son used to work at Gaslight, an unpretentious, warm little bar on Bloor that became a local for many, particularly once my welcoming, funny son started there. He was invited back last night and sent out word to his legions of followers on Instagram and FB. Anna, the boys, and I went at 5 last night to say hello, eat pizza, and drink cocktails before the crowds, which started to pile in not long after, young people who'd been regulars when he worked there and now came with their babies and small children, followed by the after-work crowd. Many hugs and laughs, Sam greeting everyone and shaking cocktails. He'd made a small card which he handed out:

The mother writes memoir; the son made a memoir in cocktails, a drink for each of the jobs he's held since leaving Gaslight. While we were there, Vince, his best friend and former flat-mate, arrived with a gift in a pretty bag for him. It was a pile of about 30 black socks Sam left behind when he moved. "They're clean," said Vince.

When we left, the place was already packed with only Sam welcoming, taking orders, making people laugh, making drinks, preparing and serving food, and clearing. He sent a text to his dad and me at 5.30 this morning that he netted nearly triple the amount the bar usually makes on a Monday night. "Plus," he wrote, "I cleaned the place top to bottom after everyone left. So happy and tired."

So proud. This young man needs his own place. That's the plan, eventually.

Just as long as wherever it is, it doesn't need to be renovated.