Confessions of a Renovation Junkie

Well, doctor, it all started when I realized that I had too much stress in my life and decided that a soothing whirlpool bath at the end of a long day would do me a world of good.

But no sense in just replacing the old bathtub. I had been toying with the idea of adding another bathroom to my three-bedroom, one-bath home, so this would be just the right time.

I knew I was in trouble when I subscribed to Remodeling magazine and--this was getting serious--Professional Builder.

My behavior patterns started to change. Lunch hours became a choice of not what trendy restaurant to choose or what to eat, but which plumbing supply warehouse or salvage yard to visit. My compulsion was to find just the right faucets, ceramic tile, wallpaper, paint, bathtub, commode, basin, lighting and bath accessories. I was an elated scavenger; I was in my glory.

My obsession manifested when I secretly planned my weekends around what time “This Old House” would be broadcast. I realized then that I was becoming a . . . becoming a . . . remodeling junkie.

Meetings with my contractor and eclectic subcontractors became part of my daily dose. I even looked forward to the city inspector’s visit. How’s that for dementia? I waited for them each morning with anxious anticipation.

If, for one of many reasons, work was delayed, I was crestfallen and spent the day withdrawn and sulking.

In the beginning, I tried to clean up after the workers left. This futile attempt at order was, however, totally useless. I accepted the dirt and Sheetrock dust in every crevice of my mangled home. My gradual deterioration had begun.

Now for the really serious part, doctor. My addiction had a financial side as well as an emotional one. My whole concept of money became distorted.

Before the remodel, writing a check for $200 caused pain. Now I scribbled checks for $2,000 or $4,000 without so much as a twitch. In fact, when I asked for a “ballpark” on some additional work, and if it was less than $1,000, I was even heard to mutter, “Is that all?” Anything under $1,000 sounded like a bargain.

My second most-repeated phrase became “Let’s take care of it now.” Well, doctor, enough “Let’s take care of it nows,” can land you in the poorhouse. Our first session is over? See you next week. Yes, I promise I’ll stay out of home warehouses until our next session at least.

It’s been rough, doctor, but I kept my promise. I didn’t go into one hardware store, didn’t buy one magazine on remodeling, didn’t arrange my weekend schedule around “This Old House.”

I must confess, though, that I had a serious relapse as I walked by one of those upscale kitchen and bath remodeling showrooms. The door swung open just as I was passing. It was fate; I went in. The whirlpools, the faucets, the basins, the towel racks, the knobs, the prices! Everything so shiny, so gleaming. The brass beckoned; the porcelain seduced me; the chrome dazzled my eyes; I ran my hand seductively over the marble. I was the proverbial kid in the candy store.

With model number in hand, I eagerly approached the customer “consultant” to ask the price of bath faucets I had selected. (Aha! I had been warned about the contractor’s versus the “commoner’s” price, and confidently asked for the contractor’s price.)

After learning the contractor’s price, I commented that I was interested in just the price of the faucets without the whirlpool tub. The “consultant” peered over glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and dryly remarked, “That is the price of the faucets alone.” Did that upset me? Noooo. After all, I was in the candy store. There were other sweets to be had.

Back to the displays I went with the same determination Elizabeth Taylor would have when selecting diamonds. Funny thing, doctor. Jewelry stores and bath showrooms must use the same interior designers. The lighting is fabulous! It could make a barnyard spigot look good. Mm, now that’s a novel idea . . .

Well, I was on the road to recovery when I had another setback. I had been invited to a dinner party and was determined to go, instead of watching “Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House” for the fourth time. Just making this decision was progress for me.

The dinner party, however, turned out to be quite a revelation. I overheard conversations about some infamous wall coming down. I wondered out loud if the wreckers had pulled a permit for the demolition. Oh, that wall! So sorry. I’ve been remodeling my house and haven’t had time to keep up with the world events.

Moreover, strange words began to creep into my conversations: joists, two-by-fours, soffits, footings, retaining walls, drainage systems, PVC, rebar. Not exactly dinner party chit-chat. People gave me strange looks and slowly drifted away not understanding.

Had I become so obsessed with remodeling that my social skills were suffering? (The guilt phase had begun.) Even my best friends wouldn’t tell me. What did I care? (Followed by the denial phase.) I would rather be talking to my contractor anyway. He would understand my language completely. After all, he was an integral part of my addiction. (My assertion phase had triumphed.)

Well, doctor, this is my last visit. Our sessions have worked wonders for me. (Combined with my new whirlpool tub, of course!) Paying you and my contractor has left me more in debt than ever but my addiction is finally under control.

One thing though. . . . You know, if you would just bump out the area where your desk is about 5 feet, add a ventilated skylight, install recessed lighting, and change the. . . .