DECEMBER 19, 2023 – Today I pursued a mundane task consuming unexpectedly over two hours of time and energy that could have been deployed to far more productive endeavors. Call it a misallocation of scarce resources. My unplanned diversion, however, was not without profit. Beyond the immediate benefit of providing material for today’s post[1] was a lesson in patience, another in basic problem solving, and yet a third about how gratification flows from conquering adversity.
Recently we launched a multi-staged cosmetic overhaul of our kitchen—new countertops, backsplashes, radical transformation of cabinets; white tiles replacing blue wall paper. For decades, four sets of switches and outlets and corresponding cover plates above the main counters were a dirty (and somewhat greasy) beige. Hiding behind various objects stored on the counter, these ugly electrical elements were mostly ignored and ignorable. Their sorry appearance was highlighted, however, by the bright new surrounding tiles—and reduction of countertop “accessories.” Ugly could no longer be ignored.
In a flash Beth procured all new switches, outlets and cover plates. It would’ve taken me a month to get around to it. When she returned with the goods, I knew one of two scenarios would ensue: 1. The anti-procrastinator of the household would start calling around for an electrician, who would magically appear by Friday to replace all the old with the new; or 2. #1 except the electrician would not (magically or otherwise) appear until well into next year. In either case, I’d be reminded that I’m lazy and a discredit to my father’s memory, since he would have completed the task—perfectly—before I could spell “call an electrician” (in writing; see my 12/15 post). The cost savings didn’t much concern me: how much could a professional possibly charge for a mere 20-minute job?
“I can install ’em,” I said in prideful ignorance.
“You will?” asked Beth. I knew it was a three-part question—not only “will” I, but can I, and if I can, will I sooner than she can find the name and number of an electrician?
“Sure,” I said, to myself as much as to her. “You just remove the wiring from the old outlets and switches and attach the new ones.”
“Okay,” she said, without a hint of doubt however much skepticism might’ve been justified by my 40-year record.
If I’ve learned anything about DIY projects over the decades, three items top the list: 1. Work should be done during business hours of a local hardware store/outlet, 2. Don’t commence any phase of the work—including clean-up—that has to be completed by a time certain (e.g. half an hour before you have to depart for a dinner engagement), and 3. Work only when your spouse is off-premises.
It might seem obvious, but with electrical projects, a fourth consideration comes into play: pre-arrange an alternative source of illumination or you’ll find yourself working in the dark (or sprawled out unconscious on the floor because you didn’t shut the power off).
In any event, beginning late this morning all the foregoing prerequisites came into perfect alignment. Well, actually not perfect. My phone—with its flashlight—kept slipping and sliding, no matter how I tried to prop it. This called for a big timeout while I tracked down a suitable work light and extension cords.
I wasn’t about to work with live wires. And in fact, in my geezerhood, I thought, why trust the circuit breakers—even though I’d hooked up a lamp to the first outlet/switch combination to make sure it went off when I flipped the main power switches for the kitchen? My leading DIY principle borrows from the medical profession’s Hippocratic Oath: “Whatever it is you’re about to do, do no harm [including to yourself].” Except . . . where’s the voltage tester that I knew had been kicking around our house/garage/basement somewhere? After a 10-minute search followed by a five-minute drive, I found it . . . at the local hardware store for $6.99 plus tax. Once out of the package and properly deployed, the device confirmed that there was no stray voltage coming through the (ancient) wires I’d be handling.
Two hours and two hundred F-bombs later . . . I’d completed installation of just one switch and outlet and fully demonstrated the importance of what 40 years of DIY projects had taught me.
When I later made the mistake of telling Beth the work (thus far) had tried my patience, she asked for specifics. I was too cold, tired, hungry, and thirsty to explain. “You don’t wanna know,” I said.
“What? Why?”
“I don’t wanna go into it.”
“Why not? What was the problem?”
I had to laugh inside. My dad would’ve rewound the figurative videotape and provided a frame-by-frame narration of every subatomic particle of each detail of the project. And Beth would’ve been sorry she’d asked. Now she persisted in asking me for details.
Just then our son Cory stopped by to pick up Illiana. His appearance deflected Beth’s persistence effectively. He then inspected my work, and being a perfectionist in his grandfather’s image, he pointed out a slight flaw: at a certain vantage point, the spacing between the cover plate on the right side of the switch appears a millimeter wider than the space on the left side. Great, I thought—just what needs to be pointed out to Beth (who was seated at the island counter, looking straight at the switch). I explained that I’d been at the mercy of the alignment of the cover plate attachment screw holes with the corresponding switch screw holes. Not good enough. He responded by telling me that tomorrow he’d bring a special file that I could use to widen the switch opening, thereby eliminating the asymmetry in spacing. Beth liked the idea.
I thanked him, but after he left with Illiana and Beth moved to the living room, I repositioned the countertop pottery vase that holds wooden spoons. Now only the backs of the spoons—assuming they have eyes—will notice the switch-spacing issue.
The reality, of course, is that I’m sandwiched between two perfectionists and married to a third. This is not so bad. If I’m not in their league, at least their examples have elevated my standards. And with that I’m . . . perfectly . . . satisfied.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] This reward of “material” is not to be underestimated. Ironically, devising a topic for this post was among the “productive endeavors” displaced by the very effort that provided material.
