Do It Yourself is all a great big lie. It’s a three-way conspiracy between Lowes, Home Depot and HGTV to thin the herd through a series of fatal home improvement accidents. I’ve attempted to be a DIY’er and it was a painful, shameful experience resulting in crippling injuries, excessive cursing, and marital instability that could, at a later date, be mentioned in a divorce petition.
It’s not my fault I’m hopeless at home improvement I come from a long line of anti-Do It Yourselfers. One of my dad’s favorite phrases, when I was growing up, was “Call Someone.” He had neither the time nor the desire to fix anything. My mom knew the handyman’s number by heart. We even gave him a Christmas and birthday present every year. Come to think of it she was awfully close to that handyman. (Suddenly so much is explained.) Back in the day there was no shame in using a handyman. Now, when a contractor’s truck parks in your driveway it’s an open invitation for your neighbors to come over and see what you’re up to. Almost all of them will tell you how you could be saving money big time, if only you would do it yourself and they say it in a condescending tone that implies your either a worthless slacker, recuperating from a severe head injury or just not very good with money if you’re going to “give it away” to a contractor.
Well, I’m none of the above so one fine fall weekend I decided it was time to emancipate my family from the “call a contractor” lifestyle I was going to tackle a home improvement project if it killed me and it almost did. Weeks later, I’m finally able to sit upright unassisted, (although my neck brace is still chafing), the vision in my left eye has been almost fully restored, and I have regained enough feeling in my fingers (still waiting for the nerve damage in my thumbs to heal) to share with you the 5 Deadly D.I.Y. Lies. Ignore these at your own peril.
It’s a Weekend Project: This could be the biggest lie of all. It is never, ever a weekend project unless you’re doing a home improvement at your fixer upper on Pluto where one day is 153 hours long. I set the blame for the weekend project label right at the freshly painted and newly weather-stripped front door of HGTV.
Most of their shows make it seem like you can re-do three rooms in your home over a long weekend all while looking perky, wearing make-up, maintaining your manicure and having a good hair day. None of this is possible. What you’re seeing is a fairy-tale. It’s make believe T.V. for grown-ups where we can indulge our decorating fantasies and be told that if we pick up a paintbrush and make a wish magic will happen.
As anyone who has attempted D.I.Y. knows the first day of any home improvement will be spent going to the hardware store of your choice and buying an abundant amount of tools, paint, and other nifty stuff all designed to make your job easier. The second half of that day will be spent returning the stuff you bought because it didn’t work, you didn’t need it or you’ve already given up. The second day of home improvement focuses on actually trying to get some work done all while either crying or cursing. By the afternoon of the second day you come to the demoralizing realization that your weekend project will be taking up an entire month of weekends. It’s then that you start to do the math and see if you can still afford to be rescued by a contractor. Sadly, in many of these cases the amount already spent on home improvement supplies necessitates that you have to finish the project without the aid of a professional.
Anyone Can Paint: To this I say liar, liar, pants on fire. Yes, anyone can wield a paintbrush. But, not everyone can paint. A painter is someone who can do excellent cut in work around doors, crown molding and windows. A painter can also use a roller and not leave drips down the wall. I am not a painter. To help me become a painter I even took a class at my local home improvement store. I had high hopes especially since I was one of the only ones in my class with all 32 of my original teeth. I figured I was in a class with some hardcore home improvement people. Dudes, that wanted to branch out of their meth lab trailers and start painting for a living.
It was a smelly bunch that showed up that Saturday morning at 7 a.m. ( The smell of cigarette smoke laced with an apparently soap resistance B.O. was a bracing way to start the day.) I was especially looking forward to learning how to use a paint sprayer thinking that would solve all my painting problems. Come to find out I might as well snort some crack and drive my car blindfolded while not wearing a seat-belt because the paint sprayer has a lot in common with the lethal injections administered by the Texas Department of Corrections. The instructor had me at “the paint sprayer can create a high-speed stream of atomized fluid which is powerful enough to pierce your skin and enter your bloodstream” causing you to die a moderately slow, tortuous death. In the even worse case scenario department the paint can also enter your bloodstream and ignite turning you into a human candle. It was at that point I just said no to a paint sprayer and swore my everlasting allegiance to the paintbrush. Unsightly brush marks be damned.
Protective Eye-wear Will Keep You Safe: I doubt an astronaut helmet lined with Kevlar could keep you safe from home improvement peril. There’s just too much that can go wrong. Think about it, you have a bunch of amateurs dealing with combustible chemicals and sharp, pointy things attached to motors. An accident is a given. Being an eternal optimist or a dumb ass, (your pick) I set out, protective eye-wear in place, to sand some cabinet doors with my brand new belt sander. I had put the cabinet doors on the picnic table in my backyard and was happily feeling like a tough chick, like I could throw down with that guy who wears the wife beater shirts and overalls on HGTV’s Holmes on Homes. As I was sanding away, enjoying my contractor fantasy that I had my own design show, a big gust of wind kicks up a torrent of tiny sand particles that find their way past my protective goggles and into my left eye. One trip to the E.R. later I emerge looking like a deranged pirate that lost a bar-fight on the HMS Hammered. My eye was swollen shut and I was styling a big white gauze patch, which, bonus points here, kept oozing fluid that ran down my cheek and flowed to my chin.
Power Tools Are for Everyone: If you need a license to drive a car then you should need a license to operate a bad ass power tool. Because power tools can kill or at the very least they can easily maim. No one should be allowed to just start sawing away or using the instrument of death known as the diamond tile saw without some sort of State or at the very least County mandated training. If a saw can cut through a couple of inches of granite in a nano second than slicing off your fingers would be as easy as cutting up Pillsbury rolled sugar cookie dough with an axe (except a whole lot less yummy). When I went to rent a tile saw I didn’t have to show I.D., take an I.Q. test, or demonstrate that my fine motor skills were in working order. Big mistake. Power tools that can slice, dice or bore a hole in your skeletal frame should be registered as weapons. Where’s the 24 hour waiting period like they have for guns? A lot can happen in 24 hours. I could have come to my senses and realized that I have no business attempting to operate a tile saw. But no, they let me rent the saw and it took three weeks and two arm braces later for partial feeling to return to my fingers. The doctor hypothesized that the vibrations from the saw aggravated a prior carpel tunnel injury. Where was that warning on the rental agreement I ask you? No where did I see “Caution: Saw vibrations can cause partial paralysis if you’re a great big sissy.”
De Cottage Cheesing Your Ceiling is a Snap: I passionately believe that the cottage cheese or popcorn ceiling has gotten a bad rap. What’s wrong with the textured ceiling? It’s vintage 70’s You wouldn’t turn up your nose at a vintage Chanel purse would you? Of course, I think this after I have lived through the agony of removing the cottage cheese from my basement ceiling. Thankfully, a previous owner had liberated our house from any and all traces of cottage cheese except for the basement. After many people had assured me that removing the cottage cheese was “super easy” and that “gravity did all the work” I embarked on my de-cottage cheesing journey. It was sixteen hours of hard labor that made childbirth seem fun.
I was precariously perched on a ladder, my neck painfully contorted as I gazed eternally upward, equipped with only two rudimentary tools – a water bottle and a scraper. For hours I sprayed and scraped, sprayed and scraped as gunk fell from the ceiling and covered me in damp icky stuff. Finally, the pain in my neck got so bad I would have killed for a cervical epidural, but all I got was two extra strength Tylenol’s. At last, after one final push the last of the popcorn came down. I was proud I had a cottage cheese free basement, but oh the agony of achieving it. The next day I woke up and I couldn’t move my neck. I tried a hot shower, turbo menthol Icy Hot, and a heating pad. Nothing worked. Back to the E.R. I go where a neck brace and hospital grade Motrin are prescribed to ease my pain. Because I’m the luckiest girl on the planet I get the same E.R. doctor I had when I got the sand particles in the eye. After making sure my husband wasn’t abusing me, due to my reoccurring E.R. visits, he writes me a prescription – “No more D.I.Y. projects.” Some people has says, “just aren’t cut out for home improvement.” I had no choice, due to the insurmountable body of evidence, but to agree.
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**For more Snarky check out my book Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School.
Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good. Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival. If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you.
Snarky in the Suburbs 