2005-02-17 - 12:33 p.m.
Crazy white dust.
Damn it. I said I’d never do it again. Never. “Why do I do this to myself?” I muttered to myself as I sat at the local dive.
In the mirror above the bar, between the odd collections of half filled liquor bottles I made out my sad reflection. Christ, I looked like shit. I was disheveled, my hair was a mess. I had that crazed look in my eyes. The tell tale traces of white dust speckled my tired face.
“Cocaine will kill ya.” The guy across the bar from me warned as he cautiously looked me up and down, wondering if I was too strung out, wondering if I was the type to cause a scene.
“Drywall.” My voice cracked.
“Oh Christ. Sorry man. Back in ’82 I tried to do a rumpus room over. Bad stuff. Fuck you up bad.” The tattooed bar tender slipped me a sympathy shot of bourbon. “Maybe in the morning, things will look better…”
“I sure hope so.” I sniffled and quickly tossed back the free rye.
Anybody who has ever tried any level of home repair knows what I’m talking about. It starts out just repairing a few nail holes in the wall, and the next thing you know, your house, your loved ones and the occasional small pet are covered in a thick layer of drywall dust.
What started as patching a small hole in my laundry room ceiling has now turned into something more along the lines of a post modern sculpture. Rather than a smooth clean surface suitable for painting flat white and attaching an inexpensive, but tasteful light fixture to, the ceiling is beginning to look more and more like a relief map of the American Southwest.
I think I lost my patience somewhere over the Rio-Grande.
“Over the Rio-Grande?”
“No. I’ll never be over the Rio Grande”
I blame the previous owner of the house. For the sake of this entry, let’s call him Russ.
No, on second thought let’s call him “Fucking Russ”, because every home repair I’ve ever done in my home has turned in a major friggin’ project. Namely because the previous owner: Fucking Russ did everything half assed.
Fucking Russ didn’t believe in screws. Nope. Everything is nailed. Want to remove a shelf unit from the closet? Better bring in a demo crew, ‘cause Fucking Russ nailed the damn thing in there like it was a roman crucifixion.
Need to replace the doorbell chime? Better think twice, Fucking Russ nailed the $2.50 chime to a stud with approximately $300 worth of nails.
I will however, give Fucking Russ credit when it came to shut-off valves. Last spring when I renovated the guest bath room, I counted no less than 5 water shut off valves along a 20 foot run of water pipe. Fucking Russ, you so crazy.
Lord knows what happened in the laundry room, but for some unknown reason, Fucking Russ had cut into the ceiling. Probably to create more storage space for his ever growing nail collection. To patch up the hole, Fucking Russ simply nailed a random piece of drywall back into the space.
It reminded me one of those aptitude tests where you place a square peg into a square hole. Except in this case, Fucking Russ fucking flunked. The hole he cut reminded me of a shape not too much unlike that of Tennessee, while the piece of drywall he nailed up has a strange resemblance to Connecticut. - Connecticut if giant mutant nails from outer space crashed down into it. Christ, there’s got to be 4 nails in East Hartford alone. Fucking Russ.
So, its day five of the ceiling repair project from hell. Joint compound is running low and I need more dry wall screws. My dust covered lovely wife now looks like Edgar Winter's pissed off sister. My ceiling is taking on a strange new look that someday, years from now I’m sure the new home owner will curse my name all to hell.
In the mean time, you can find me strung out on dry wall dust at the bar, with all the other suburban home owner junkies.
Fucking Russ. 