Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
DIY redux
I should know better. I really should.
And if, after my death, someone disrespects my wishes and sticks me in a grave with gravestone and all that tripe, the gravestone should read, “He really should have known better,” since I’ve foreseen my death, albeit hazily, and it has DIY written all over it.
I’m the guy who shouldn’t touch a tool unless it has the word garden behind it. This morning, I spread one big fat bag of compost and then another big fat bag of mulch all over my 4 by 6 raised bed “garden,” in the hopes that next Spring, I’ll be able to lose those air quotes. (Bakersfield soil is only marginally more fertile than the caliche wastes of South Texas.) All that heavy lifting, all that spreading using a cultivator with about 20 sharp ankle-destroying steel blades, and I did just fine, thank you.
Emboldened by my success, I tried to install a grab bar next to the toilet. I’d bought two. And if the first one went well, I would buy a ceramic drill and install the second one in the shower! And if that went well, who knows what I might try next.
The stud-finder worked well. Drilling the tap-holes (or whatever they’re called), that went well too. Screwing in the screws, that’s what did me in. Our drills weren’t long enough to tap the full length of the screw, so the last inch or so of screwing was hell on earth. I managed to get one screw in. One. And my arm was sore and my palm callused, threatening blisters, and yet I had at least three more screws to go.
That’s when I had the brilliant idea of using a nail to tap the hole. Even though we don’t have a long enough drill, we have a nail that’s long enough and has the right diameter. “Just be sure you can get it out again,” Karen said, and I scoffed. When have I not been able to remove a nail? Just leave enough room for the claw, maybe use a washcloth to cushion the wall as I lever the bastard out —
The nail made it about 1.5 inches into the wall and stopped. Wouldn’t go further no matter how much I whaled on it. Wouldn’t pull out, either. Karen, reasonably, suggested I hammer it the rest of the way in (the nail head was large enough to hold the flange in place) so I whaled on it with renewed effort.
The fucker bent.
By now I’m wondering what my studs are made out of. Teak? Ironwood? Whoever heard of wood that couldn’t be nailed?
We’ll be getting someone else to put in that shower grab bar. And while he’s at it, he can do something about my nail with Peyronie’s disease*.
D.
*Those of you who have commented in the past, “I should know better than to follow your links,” would do well to learn from past experiences. But I know your curiosity will get the better of you.
Most men really should know and respect their limitations when it comes to home improvements that involve any drilling.
Tongue firmly in cheek, Sis?
My sweet husband is no longer allowed to use tools of any kind, cleaning products, chemicals, fertilizer, paint, bleach, ladders, machines of any kind due to multiple incidents like yours. Furthermore, he is not allowed to drive my car unless I am a passenger. Luckily we have found a really hunky handyman who is so cute and capable that I selfishly “forget” to share his number and wonderfulness with friends whose husbands are all thumbs like my sweetie.
This spring in a burst of enthusiasm my husband broke the rules and purchased all sorts of fertilizers and spreading devices to reseed a spot on our side lawn that had been ravaged by moles and drought. He spent an afternoon or so outside proudly moving stuff around and broadcasting stuff with the spreader he bought. Then, we waited for the new grass, and waited and waited. Finally I checked out all the stuff he bought and determined that he had forgotten to buy grass seed! Thank god for sons and handymen.
You said, “wood that couldn’t be nailed.”
Lucie, gardening is the one thing around the house I can do. I have a distinct memory from childhood, accompanying my parents on their house-hunting trips . . . I would always go into the backyard, get my hands into the dirt, and declare the soil good or bad. Did I know what I was talking about? Who knows. I was so full of shit back then it ain’t funny.
Tracy: that I did, that I did.