Handy + man doesn’t equal handyman

Bless me readers, for I have sawed. It has been almost one year

since my last home improvement. Just as I approached an anniversary

that would have entitled me to move beyond the actively addicted to

the ranks of those being trained to treat others with their

addiction, I gave in to the call of the cordless drill.

I am on another home improvement binge, this time experimenting

with new highs (and lows) that I was once sure I’d never experiment

with. Back when I was just testing myself with the installation of

some mini-blinds, or on a goof with friends as we ditched work to

install a water heater, I never imagined I’d one day be one of those

dirty, dusty men in ragged clothes cruising the aisles of local home

improvement centers in search of something to help boost the next

rush. But I have to admit it, that’s what I am.

But it’s not too late for you. Maybe you can be “scared straight”

by my story.

I’m in the middle of a bender that has seen me take on a list of

remodeling tasks that would make a contractor blush. It began when I

stood in our entryway and took a reciprocal saw to an exterior wall

of our house. I made a huge hole in the front of my house, and I did

it on purpose! It will end with a nightmare the likes of which I’ve

never dreamed: an in-ground swimming pool.

Some of you may be saying, “Will, we know how much money you make.

You can’t afford a swimming pool!” Of course, under normal

circumstances, that’s right. But normal circumstances don’t include

being an addict and doing it yourself! Doing it myself, I can not

only afford the pool, I might even have the cash to put several

inches of water in it!

Given my role in these parts as something of muckraker and City

Hall tattletale, I don’t take on these chores without the requisite

permits. In fact, there was a debate in the permit office as to

whether my removing a slanted, decrepit set of glass block windows

and replacing them with properly installed glass blocks required a

permit. I ended the debate saying I’d rather pay the $33.50 to avoid

hearing the debate at a council meeting, probably with visual aids.

After all, when I was remodeling my kitchen, a pair who didn’t

agree with my published opinions related to the airport stood on the

sidewalk and videotaped my work through my living room windows.

Another time, my jaw dropped when a gadfly walked in my back door and

greeted me as I wrestled with sawhorses and lumber. He’d taken the

wide-open door as an invitation, though seeing it required first

walking up the driveway and exploring the rear of my house.

Given different circumstances, I’m not so noble that I’d never be

tempted to install a new garbage disposal without a permit. But if I

want to criticize a council member for flouting the rules, my doing

the same would only give them an out.

But it’s not as though sticking to the rules doesn’t complicate

things. In considering the swimming pool project, I knew I was

inviting scrutiny that comes with permits running the gamut from

electrical work to excavation, from plumbing to fences. But it hadn’t

occurred to me that I’d also be compelled to have some aspects of my

plans reviewed by engineers. It makes all the sense in the world,

having a professional analyze the plans to assure that my house won’t

go sliding into a pool, or that a party won’t be interrupted by pool

walls collapsing in on frolicking swimmers.

But the idea of bringing learned professionals with slide rules in

on my sweaty, grimy obsession was a cold shower on my pursuit of a

high. When I first received a message from city offices about the

need for an engineer’s approval, I answered with mock whining and

jokes about dealing with engineers. “They’re so strange,” I said.

“Engineers are odd people who act weird!” I complained.

I went on like this in a series of e-mails to the building

official, making every crack and exaggeration I could about the

reputation engineers have for eccentric behavior. Every response I

got was patient, always to the effect of “Nonetheless, you have to

hire one.” I think I’d recited every entry in my copy of “1001

Insulting Jokes About Engineers” before I happened to notice for the

first time the signature at the bottom of every e-mail from the city.

Beneath the official’s name was his title, “Planning Engineer.” I’d

dug myself a big hole that had nothing to do with a pool. Yet more

proof that addiction is a form of self-destruction.

With my current binge of projects has come the usual streak of

injuries, any one of which I’d consider crippling in other

circumstances. Replacing some tile, I’d cut a large section of tile

and plaster from a shower wall. As I pried it free, I planned to step

back and let it fall to cardboard protecting the floor.

Unfortunately, when the instant came to jump back, I realized I was

in a shower, a space with 39 inches between opposing walls. Many of

those inches were already taken up by my own circumference. I had

nowhere to back up to, and the heavy sheet of plaster and tile

dropped onto my leg, scraping and gouging a bloody trail down my

shin.

Had that happened in the course of working in my office, I’d have

been hospitalized. As it happened in my altered state, I saw it as a

“cool” injury that would really impress my wife.

My body is covered with countless dings and divots, each an ugly

reminder of my carelessness or recklessness. But, sort of like those

wimps who are slaves to illicit drugs, home improvement addicts don’t

feel pain the way normal, healthy people do. Except, of course, when

getting out of bed in the morning.

Given a night’s sleep after a day of hammering, pulling, lifting

and heaving around power tools, I crawl out of bed feeling like an

out-of-shape middle-aged man who played touch football yesterday for

the first time since high school. But that isn’t just the first day,

or first week. Waking up feeling this way day after day for weeks on

end gives one a new appreciation for people who really do WORK for a

living. Of course, the only thing I can do to dull the pain is try

for another high, and so I start tiling the front porch.

As for the nights, it wouldn’t be accurate to say I fall asleep.

Like any addict, I don’t go to bed in the conventional sense. I pass

out. I know many out there are sure this could never happen to them,

and that’s what I used to think, too. I once believed I could

experiment with building a bird house, or assembling IKEA furniture.

When I was younger, I used to think you could never get this bad

unless you hit the hard stuff, going out to buy an air compressor and

pneumatic tools.

Well, kids, forget all that. It’s a myth. It happened to me, and

it can happen to you.

* WILL ROGERS’ column runs on Tuesdays and Fridays. He can be

reached at 637-3200, voice mail ext. 906, or by e-mail at

WillColumn@aol.com.