Do you think of a nail as something on the tip of your finger? When you hear about a Molly, do you think of that sweet girl you went to high school with? Does a screwdriver conjure images of a cocktail party? If so, then you are like me and should be the last soul on earth to attempt your own home repairs. It should be illegal for people like us to do so. And yet, like Christopher Columbus’s perseverance against the world being flat, we are driven to explore regions beyond which our thumbs should not dare. My house has become a brave new world where the inept have inherited the earth. I have been trying to fix things, despite recent admonitions that the entire situation is hazardous to my own health.
Many years later, I thought I could save myself some money by poly-urethaning the parquet floor in the dining room of my first apartment. It was a small area and I thought I could handle it. I bought all the stuff; the brushes, the paint thinner, the polyurethane- all the accouterments to a professional job with the elimination of one minor variable- a professional. I set about to the task at hand, enthusiastic and empowered by a positive attitude.
I was so proud of myself because it really looked like I was going to make it; that is, until I needed my house keys and found myself stranded into a wet corner because I hadn’t considered drying time and forgot that my keys were ten feet away from any place a human hand could reach them. I had to do the section between the dining room table and the kitchen all over again, only to have it happen a second time because I left some supplies that I needed on the dining room table. I’d still be doing that floor to this day it if I hadn’t finally given up and called in a contractor to finish the job.(Of course, it ended up costing me twice as much.)
That was twelve years ago and I thought I had learned. I bought a new house and hired a contractor and spent a fortune on making it look as beautiful as I could afford. But a small bathroom on the first floor had wallpaper that made me itch whenever I looked at it. I decided to change it myself rather than bother my very busy boy-friend who lived in another state or call in a contractor for what he would certainly have considered to be a small job.” I picked out the paper; an old fashioned white with a design they called a “faux-tin” motif. I bought the paper and the glue and the rollers and came home ready to begin.
It took a week-end to get the paper up. Part of me knew I was asking for trouble by defying the gods in such a disgraceful manner. It was almost like calling the Titanic “unsinkable.” It took me two weeks to get the ubiquitous glue that slid like an oil slick off my eye-lids, out of my hair and armpits. But I didn’t care if I was sticky. I had done it and I had done it myself. I took a nap after I finished because I was too tired for words and it was only when I awoke and looked at the paper again that my nightmare began. At a distance, everything looked fine; the edges were even and well attached to the glue. But closer scrutiny revealed that the design on the edges did not match! Alas, the fate of one who does not check the lot numbers on wallpaper. The rolls were similar but not the same. One square contained an inner star, the other a circle. The whole room was a vicious hangover waiting to go away.
Can you guess what I did? That’s right. I called a contractor, went back to Home Depot and bought some more paper. This time I checked the lot numbers. Did I save any money? What do you think?
The morale of the story is that Oscar Wilde was right. There is only sin and that is stupidity. If you can’t do it, what makes you think that trying to will help? If you don’t understand this logic, you should return with me to the screwdriver cocktail party where we will meet my friend, Molly and we’ll all go for a manicure!