Home renovation time!
Last Friday night, after a visit to a local pub, I stood in our basement bathroom, looking around at the shabby, crumbling decor. I decided, This Place Needs Some Work! Excited to start another home reno project, I went straight to the workshop and got out all the necessary equipment — crowbar, sledge-hammer, extra-large chisels, hacksaw, mallet, blowtorch, bolt-cutters, disk-grinder, safety goggles, etc. Everybody else was asleep, so I decided not to start work right away. I put the tools in the downstairs bathroom, up on a shelf where the kids couldn’t reach, then went to bed.
The next morning, my wife asked me about the tools downstairs. Rubbing my aching forehead, I told her about my plan to renovate the basement bathroom. She just looked at me. I told her that it wouldn’t be at all like the time I tried to renovate the upstairs bathroom.
“Are you sure?” she said.
A few years before, I had wanted to replace the tiles in our upstairs bathroom. The previous owner of the house had covered much of the upstairs bathroom with pink tiles. It was like Barbie’s bathroom. The little shower stall — surrounding you with pink tiles on ceiling, floor and walls — was like a return to the womb. So, using some of the tools listed above, I gleefully demolished and removed 95% of the pink tiles. Then, after researching tiling on the internet, I realized that putting in new tiles would be tricky. There’s all this technical stuff you’re supposed to do or else the tiles will be crooked or fall off the wall or whatever. I got a bit intimidated by it all, so I kept putting the re-tiling project off. When my wife reminded me about it, I’d say something like, “It’s on my to-do list,” or “I’ve been working out the details in my mind.” Eventually, after months of us having to use a half-demolished upstairs loo — which looked like The Hulk’s bathroom now — we hired tiling professionals, who charged us about what you’d expect to pay for a black-market transplant-kidney.
Anyway, I assured my wife that this time, things would be different. So, I got approval to go ahead, though she insisted I put the blow-torch away, saying, “Why would you need one anyway?”
“If I decide to smoke a cigar while working, I can use it to light it.”
“You don’t smoke cigars.”
I had to take the blowtorch back to the workshop, but got to keep the other toys. I mean, tools. I strutted back into the downstairs bathroom and yelled, in a voice like a cartoon villain, “Ha! Now you are mine! Nothing can save you from my plans! Ha ha ha!”
Reader: If you hear any odd noises over the next few days, don’t worry, it’s just me, renovating.