Webster's definition of home improvement: "The ability to add value to one's place of residence while simultaneously arguing with loved ones and strangers. See also anxiety attack, divorce, and premenstrual syndrome." Webster didn't really say that. I did. But if Webster had ever remodeled his home between making up definitions, he would have agreed with me. I have led a sheltered life. 

My parents never remodeled their home when I was a child. I was never exposed to the horrors of workmen draining the refrigerator of beer and food, and my folks' bank account of funds. Instead they let me enter this world believing that all contractors are honest, on time, and sober. My first do-it-yourself remodeling job was as memorable as my first pimple, only it lasted much longer. 

Date: 1978. Place: Santa Ana, California. Project: retile the tub walls and bathroom floor. I was so misled. The fat salesman at Color Tile said it would be fun. I'd get a feeling of satisfaction I'd never had before. I'd improve the value of my home and make a killing when I sold it to the next sucker. He also mentioned that laying tile would be easier than I thought. What he didn't mention was that linoleum glued to a wood floor for 30 years will not come up unless you remove the wood floor. He also didn't tell me that those little pink and yellow bathroom tiles were permanently attached to the wallboard and there would be no wallboard left when the last tile was torn down.

 I also was not given full disclosure about tile cutters. My jolly tile dealer didn't charge me to use his tile cutter. That's because he eventually was able to sell me three times as many tiles as I needed to complete the job. The cutter was specially designed to break two out of three tiles in the wrong place. What a great marketing trick. I ended up bringing my premarked tiles into the store so he could show me how he could avoid breaking two out of three tiles. He couldn't. I enjoyed watching his pudgy face turn red, though. 

Being a novice home-improvement kind of gal, I hadn't realized I needed to remove the bathroom sink, cabinet, and toilet to properly tile the floor. Is this what the man meant when he said it would be easier than I thought? Although the toilet was replaced within a day, for two months I had to go to the kitchen sink to brush my teeth. It took just one month and 29 days longer than expected because I decided to wallpaper, replace the sink and cabinet, and replace the fixtures as well. After the project was complete, I still went to the kitchen to brush my teeth. 

The salesman was right. I did feel satisfied. I knew that no matter how little money I had in the future, I would be satisfied to pay someone else to remodel my bathroom in one week instead of the two months it took me to accomplish the job. As far as increasing the value of the home, well that's a sad story. The city purchased the house a couple years later at a rock-bottom price, then tore it down to expand the elementary school across the street. So much for making a killing. 

My good friend Carol wrote to me a few months ago about her home-improvement nightmare. She and her husband decided to buy bedroom furniture. It seemed like an innocent idea at first, but it evolved into a home-improvement extravaganza for which they were not prepared. They decided the carpet they'd had for 10 years would look even shabbier under the expensive new furniture. 

As the new carpet samples were being examined, the interior house paint began to look drab. When the paint samples were taped to the walls, the cottage-cheese-textured ceiling looked dated. In addition, Carol hated the linoleum, as well as their slip-and-fall-lawsuit wood entryway, so they decided on a new tile floor. Over the next few weeks, they gathered estimates, interviewed people, and scheduled the impending ordeal. In the meantime, they bought new light fixtures and, yes, even a new kitchen sink. 

Carol had knee surgery in October. The men were scheduled to begin the first of December. Not only was she unable to run around and keep an eye on the workers, but her greatest frustration was that she was unable to give them a kick in the butt, which reflected her true feelings regarding their work. Carol told me of "Pat the Rat." She and her husband interviewed two contractors to scrape their ceilings. One was Pat, and the other was Jim. Jim was licensed, he had a bunch of expensive equipment, and had been doing this type of work for about 10 years. Pat was a drywall man and had done it a couple of times. He had broken equipment. Jim was $100 more. For some reason, Carol liked Jim and her husband liked Pat. They hired Pat. "From the second I laid eyes on him," Carol wrote, "I knew he was a weasel. 

The problem was that Pat had a "good" brother named Kevin. "Since we were using the good brother for the painting," said Carol, "We thought the job would go smoother and there would be less finger-pointing if we used the 'evil mutant' brother to do the ceiling and wall prep. WRONG." Carol had another name for Pat: the "snot-swallowing, belching wolf-pig." Apparently the dust created by the drywall boards made his mucus membranes create massive amounts of snot. So every 30 seconds, he would sniff as hard as he could to get a big old wad in his throat, then he'd swallow it and belch. Even more endearing, every time she walked up to him, he would enthusiastically scratch his private parts and belch. On the day Pat arrived, he brought someone to help him. Carol had repressed his name, deciding to refer to him as Lucifer. Lucifer had long hair and pierced ears with crosses for earrings. When Carol asked him if he were a Christian, he just laughed. For the next five days, Pat and Lucifer argued, groped themselves, and snotted around the house. Pat's favorite sentence summing up the week was, "Oh well, the great thing about that stuff is that it comes out with a sponge and warm water!" I went to visit Carol a few months later and her house was beautiful, but she and her husband were not the same happy-go-lucky people I once knew. 

We all went to dinner together. After relaying their order to the waitress, they requested an estimate of how much the meal was going to cost them, how long it would take to prepare, the credentials of the chef, and what kind of guarantee the restaurant had that they would be satisfied with the meal. Yes, H.I.S. (Home Improvement Syndrome) can affect our lives in ways never imaginable, long after the remodeling project is finished.

My former husband (wasband) and I bought our first new home together when we were first engaged. I have come to the conclusion that there is only one reason to buy a new home: so you can test the perseverance of your relationship with your spouse. We purchased a large executive-type home in an exclusive area of Carlsbad, California. Unfortunately, from the time we put down our $5,000 deposit and were able to move in, almost two years had passed and we were out of the newlywed stage. Anyone who has ever purchased a home from a developer knows that "upgrades not included" signifies that the model home will not resemble your personal home when completed. If you choose to "upgrade," it will cost an additional $50,000. We upgraded. Cheap tile turned into marble. Thin, lifeless carpet turned into massive white clouds of deep pile carpeting. Sliding doors turned into French doors. Storage spaces were created under stairs. Extra phone and electrical outlets were strategically placed in each room. 

Yes, we were creating a masterpiece, as well as grounds for divorce. We managed to agree on window covering. We never got any. We had no money left after the landscaping. Investing in landscaping is the same concept as investing in a boat. It's an endless money-sucking proposition. I interviewed four "contractors" (and I use that term loosely). Roberto had cornered the neighborhood. He lowballed the first job, giving double in value than what the neighbor paid for, and as Roberto had hoped, my neighbor ranted and raved to everyone on the street about what a terrific deal his work was. Quickly, one neighbor after another used Roberto's services, each paying a little bit more and receiving a lot less. Roberto had a crew of 20 illegal aliens. His job was to get the bid, have the contract signed, take the customer's money, and go to the nearest jewelry store to buy another gold chain or bracelet. The guy looked like Mr. T. I don't trust any man who wears more jewelry than I do, but I walked over to my neighbor's house and introduced myself to Roberto. He was sipping hot coffee out of a gold-leaf mug and screaming at the dozens of men to work faster. I asked if he'd come to my house to give me an estimate on landscaping and creating a masterpiece in my yard like he had done for so many others on the block. He kicked the mud off his $500 alligator boots and strutted across the street. "How much do you want to spend?" he inquired as we stepped onto our driveway, running a hand through his highly greased hair. "Well, we're on a budget. We don't have much money left after upgrading our home, and we'd like to keep it under twenty thousand dollars." He cleared a big wad of mucus from the back of his throat and spat it on the driveway. It was a sign of disgust at how cheap we were. He said he could do the front yard for 20 and the back for another 20. "Well Roberto, can you give me some idea of what you would do with our property for forty thousand dollars?" "It's gonna look great. Trust me." One more wad appeared on my driveway as he grabbed his five-pound, gold-and-silver belt buckle to hike up his designer jeans. He looked at his solid-gold watch inlaid with diamonds and said he had to get to the job site. If I wanted his services, he could start in a week. He didn't give plans, and he wanted 50 percent up front. Roberto and I never spoke after that. But I wish I had discovered who his jeweler was. 

Dan White. What an American-sounding, honest, forthright name. Dan wasn't licensed, but with his bulging muscles, short blond hair, and tight pink T-shirt and jeans, he looked like a Calvin Klein model. A joy to have around, when he chose to show up. He was constantly accompanied by his acne-scarred, ex-con older brother, whom I'll call Buford, who always had a cigarette in one hand and a Bud in the other. Dan and Buford started our 50-foot block wall, promising to erect, stucco, and tile it in "a couple of weeks." We paid him "time and materials". Sounded good to us. Buford, used to the easy prison life, decided to stretch one hour's work into an eight-hour day. At one point, I found him taking identical tiles out of a box and laying them on the driveway. He was supposed to cement them to the stucco wall. When I asked him why he had to lay the tiles on the driveway first, he told me he was "matching them up". I watched Buford match tiles and drink Budweiser for six hours. Then I fired him, and he drove away. Dan didn't like that. Dan didn't own a vehicle. That's why Dan never showed up again. Fast-talking Jose Nunez finished Dan's job. As we were gathered around our dining room table, exchanging landscaping plans for signed contracts and 25 percent down, I looked at Jose and said, "Now you're not going to take this money and go on vacation, are you?" I should never have said that. Jose must have spoken to Dan and discovered that we were used to not having workers show up each day. Jose showed up just enough, about 3.2 times each week, to let us know he was still alive. Every other visit he requested more money. I wrote more checks to Jose than to Safeway. After four months, Jose hit us for the remainder of the payment. The job was only half finished, and 3.2 times a week was turning into 1.2 times every two weeks. I felt as if he was losing interest in the job, but not the money. I told him I wouldn't pay him the balance until the job was finished. He informed me that he wasn't going to finish the job until he had the money to pay his workers. It was a Mexican standoff. Something in the pit of my stomach said not to do it. I did it. I gave him another $4,000. I never saw Jose again. I guess he took that long-needed vacation. 

In desperation, we called Fred Cox, who resembled his namesake Fred Flintstone. He was handsome in a prehistoric way, and I could tell he never missed a meal. However, Fred was licensed. Fred spoke English. Fred owned a late-model truck and wore no jewelry except for a plain wedding band. Fred told us that he would have to undo everything that Jose had done. It was totally unacceptable. It would cost another $10,000. But it would be done in a week. Since six months had passed, a week sounded irresistible. Fred brought over his official-looking contract and his master plan and asked for $1,000. Fred and his crew worked at our house day and night for seven days. We gave him $9,000 at completion, a big hug, and a bottle of champagne. So what have I learned? Never buy a new house. Never trust the neighborhood contractor. Always hire a licensed contractor. Learn to speak fluent Contractor Spanish. Don't pay for "time and material," just get a bid and make them stick to it. Hire another person to oversee the person you hired. Have weekly counseling sessions to keep your marriage together. Most of all, before you begin, multiply all estimates by a factor of five to get a realistic figure on the cost of the project. It also helps to temporarily take up drinking. 

If you see Jose, tell him he owes me money.
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