Renovation as reliable as Stan

JOSEPH N. BELL

My wife and I have just emerged from a period of cosmetic renovation

of our home, and it underscored once again the vast difference in

approach to this sort of thing between men and women -- a

generalization I believe implicitly and will defend stoutly.

I tend to look at our house the same way I regard a very special

pair of khaki pants I would probably wear all the time if they didn’t

have to be washed periodically. They are luxuriously comfortable, the

requirement I place the highest. And they send all sorts of useful

messages to me.

If I have a problem getting the belt into its customary hole, I

know I’m putting on weight. If I’m dubious about the propriety of

wearing them to a dinner party, I’m warned that I should take a

closer look at the hosts to see if we fit into their social milieu.

If it is suggested that I get some new khaki pants, I know that my

wife is gearing up for an attack on my current pants. When she gets

to this stage, she is relentless. She once threw an earlier pair of

khakis in the trash -- without my knowledge -- simply because they

had a small rip in the seat that could be easily patched.

She takes the same approach toward our house. She is periodically

willing to sacrifice tradition and loyalty to things that have served

us well for many years on the altar of what she likes to call proper

maintenance. This is a thinly disguised rationale for bringing in a

horde of painters and carpenters to disrupt our life and change

familiar and comfortable surroundings to new and uncertain

replacements. In fairness to Sherry, this is not an ongoing process.

It’s rather like the 17-year locusts that used to descend on my

Midwestern town. Her schedule is shorter: the 10-Year do-over. And

irresistible. I fight a delaying action for those 10 years that she

tends to respect, although I can see the build-up coming long before

it hits. In this inevitable scenario, I have found one saving grace.

His name is Stan and he is a retired fireman who came to us quite by

accident, doing a small repair job for a plumber who had to break out

a piece of our wall.

He did it so well that we asked him to do some modest work for us

and from that point on, Stan and my wife have been collaborators in

change.

To call him a handyman is an egregious understatement, yet, I

suppose, technically correct. He charges by the hour and every

workday morning picks his painters from those seeking daywork in

Costa Mesa. He tries to keep the same men on a job, but sometimes

they don’t show up and he has to improvise.

If this sounds precarious, he always makes it work. He told me

matter-of-factly that he can look a man in the eye and decide if he

is a good painter. I believe him.

He brings his truck -- looking like a homeless shopping cart --

into our driveway and unloads his workplace in our garage. It stays

there until the job is finished.

Like my wife, Stan is a perfectionist. They have a kind of wary

admiration for each other, which makes them both comrades and

occasional adversaries. Stan very early learned the chain of command.

When he wants to consult on creative or technical matters, he seeks

out my wife. For awhile, he tried to protect my feelings by showing

the flag with me first, but he no longer bothers with this charade,

knowing that any decision we reach may be reversed when Sherry gets

home. The only time he comes to me first is when he wants a check.

Although we have found Stan’s work consistently impeccable, his

ways are not for everyone. He requires a clear vision of every

project -- large or small -- before he plunges, and he’s determined

to get it right. He once spent an hour crafting a single piece of

trim over our front door. This could tax the patience of someone

unfamiliar with his work habits, but we’ve learned to judge only his

finished product.

I have also had to learn that Stan’s finished product is not my

wife’s. Her visions go far beyond dry wall and paint. Like the woman

who buys a purse then has to purchase an outfit to go with it, she is

thinking accessories from the get-go, a process I should have learned

long ago and haven’t.

There are all sorts of fantasies going on inside her head to which

I am not privy until she hits me with them. Many involve replacing

furniture and accessories to which I am as loyal as my khaki pants --

like, for example, the couch in an upstairs sitting room that was

Coco’s favorite napping spot and still smells of her. And some of

Sherry’s fantasies require my active participation, first in

shopping, which I don’t do well, then in assembly which I do even

worse.

One fantasy will illustrate. She has long lusted for a table and

chairs -- like those outside French sidewalk cafes -- where she could

eat her breakfast and read her morning newspaper and look out on the

world. She finally found such a place in our refurbished house that

would accommodate a small wooden table and chairs and ordered them

off the Internet. They arrived in a box containing several dozen

pieces and a set of directions written either by a practicing sadist

or someone with English as a third language.

I spent two afternoons of my life putting these pieces together. I

finally got it right with the second chair and then had to

disassemble the first one because I had used some of the wrong parts.

I was even denied the dubious satisfaction of final assembly because

I was fixated on possible forms of revenge for the cretin who had

written those directions.

And now, like a deep diver surfacing to take a breath before he

submerges, we are about to go down again. Stan will soon be back to

refurbish the final two rooms in our makeover. I have been assured

these will go quickly, and we will be in the clear for the next 10

years. We’ll see.

But I did have time during the breathing spell -- when Sherry was

in New York, and I was alone -- to look around me and soak up what

had been accomplished. I took my morning coffee at the new table and

admired the freshly painted bookcase from my new bed and wrapped

myself in the soft colors. And I decided, now that it is mostly over,

I might eventually find a new sense of comfort in the changes -- as

long as I can be sure I have 10 years to do it.

* JOSEPH N. BELL is a resident of Santa Ana Heights. His column

appears Thursdays.