The Myth of Home Improvement

A decade ago it was fun to decide to redo the floors of our newly purchased, old house. A week later,  knee deep in crow bars, piss-stained carpet, damp foam padding, and nasty linoleum, I changed my mind. Forever. This is one of those things, like writing a book, that in fantasy seems like it’s going to feel rewarding every step of the way and bring you closer to others, your spouse, say, or other DIYers, but in reality just sucks.

Flash forward a decade. Different old house. Bathroom remodel. Half the dinky room stripped to studs and all these men coming in and out. They no longer intimidate me, by the way, and in today’s market I can actually get them to call me back. I love our contractor, which helps immensely. Normally he talks a lot but on the clock he is all business; you can barely get him to finish a sentence. But the thing is, and how is this for the spoiled bratishness of failed DIYers everywhere,  I hate invaders in my house.

People who work at home, especially writers, will understand the intense, almost perverse attachment to the domestic front. All routine rests here. The fridge, the office, the water glass, coffee maker, view from the window,  the musty smell of paper, the sound of the backup hard drive, the distant school bell, all of this goes beyond mere comfort. It is one’s sanity.

It’s gonna be great when it’s done. New tub, new shower, new tile, new window.

Yesterday I drove around for thirty minutes with the dog crated in back trying to think where to eat breakfast. I ended up in a loud coffee shop trying not to hear the woman next to me natter on about her children. Joining the legions of modern telecommuters eating with an open laptop, I checked my email. Here sat an hour-old message from a literary agent considering my novel!! She wanted a phone date but was only free until two east coast time. It was ten-thirty, mountain standard.

I cursed the men in my house, then took it back and wished them happy progress. I wrote that I’d be free in 35 minutes, packed up and headed to my sister’s vacant space outside of town. I sped across the bridge over the bulging East Gallatin River, gave the dog a quick walk and a chew toy, sat down and the phone rang. We discussed a half dozen small changes. The dog, who is only five months old, began pawing the carpet, tossing around a plush toy octopus and whining at my feet.  We talked right up until two, when her conference call came in and she said by the way I’d like to sign you, I’ll send you a follow up email, and was gone.

It was then that I began to lose my sanity. I needed my house. I jumped up, shut off the lights, locked the door and sped back to town, noting that the bridge wasn’t going to last the week.  At home Rob had his generator hooked up, which powered on like a jet engine every ten minutes. His sawzall was ripping through the subfloor, sending dust particles from the ceiling all over the kitchen. I hid in the basement where I sat in the closet, phoned a friend and screeched into her ear while the puppy merrily tossed Lincoln logs into the air, then an abandoned snow boot. When she began to gnaw on the guest bed post, I knew it was time to change scenes. Again. I left her in the back of the car and spent the next fifteen minutes at the gym, on a stationary bike, one of man’s most asinine inventions, and one that I use often. There I sat, pedaling to nowhere, not thinking about a literary agent signing me, someone I didn’t know believing that what I wrote, all three hundred fifty pages of it, a decade’s worth of work, was something strangers everywhere might want to read.

I am proud to state here that though it took me several hours, I was wise enough to see that this is the moment. The one to relish. This was me opening the bathroom door after all the men have gone. The window gleams, the tile glimmers and the shower head points down at the shiny new tub, terribly proud.