Woman without a Ceiling

Thanks to the Abbott and Costello of Home Repair

By Mary Mendoza

"Let's rip down the kitchen ceiling," I said. "It's so ugly and grimy. I want something with an Italian fresco look." "Now?" he said. "The game's about to start." "Now," I replied. "I'm in the mood."

That's how it all started. Not with a whimper, but with a bang. In one mad burst of energy my husband and I destroyed what had taken skilled workmen days to install in 1974.

As we stood there, knee-deep in a heap of synthetic ceiling boards and glassy chunks of insulation, I realized the ceiling wouldn't reconstruct itself. I'd naively thought we'd find Renaissance paintings under the grunge or, at the very least, Martha Stewart's first efforts at stenciling.

What we found were hand-hewn timbers that looked like they came out of the Ark, several Avon Christmas ornaments wedged between some boards, a silver baby spoon and a TV Guide with Sonny and Cher on the cover. It was scary.

My husband, the landscaper, and our son Pete, computer genius, felt they were eminently qualified to tackle the ceiling project, but they had to re-circuit the entire electrical system first.

"Let's hire an expert," I pleaded. "It's dangerous to mess around with electricity." "Too expensive. We can do it," my husband declared.

They consulted experts (our neighbor Charlie, a retired used car salesman), studied technical manuals (Encyclopedia Britannica, volume "E"), and bought high-tech tools (a tape measure and hammer). They watched Home Improvement reruns for a week.

They assured me the job would take only a couple of hours. I figured I could be temporarily powerless, even though I'm an electricholic. I keep every light in the house on 24 hours a day and all the appliances operating at top speed. My maze of extension cords, if stretched end to end, would reach from Seattle to Baltimore.

By 8 a.m. the fellas were revved and ready for action. Pete wore a World War I-style gas mask so he could breathe in the attic crawl space. My husband had on his lucky T-shirt.

They cut the power to the house and removed the back door to get the ladder in. An Arctic wind began to blow.

Fast forward several hours, after multiple trips to the electrical supply store for parts they'd forgotten. Pete asked if I had a copy of "Electricity for Dummies."

I turned to my husband, "Can't you just admit defeat and go out and mow the lawn? Or finish painting the fence before it rains? Or clean the gutters? I'll call an electrician."

"We are not defeated," he said defensively. "You are exaggerating as usual. We're going to finish the job. Besides, I need a Blasto-Liftoff gun for the gutters." "What's wrong with the hose and your hands?" I asked.

That evening, after a series of deafening crashes, the drill hitting a vital body part, lots of swearing, and a cloud of sawdust, there was silence.

"Are you finished guys?" I said, peeking around the corner.

"Globgetk arq bltsurk," Pete said through his mask.

Silence from my husband. He eyes were bulging like Ricky Ricardo's when Lucy did something crazy.

"Are you okay? What's going on?" I said.

Pete took off the mask and wiped away the sweat.

"We need a three-way splicer conduit amp choke," he said. "I'll bring one up next time I'm here."

"What do you mean? You won't back until Christmas!" I wailed.

"Cool it Mom. You still have lights."

"Yeah. On the deck. And look at the mess you guys made. Is that a tear in my new Congoleum?"

"You have to break a few eggs to make an omelet," he said with a shrug.

So they abandoned the job. It was like the whole thing never happened.

I was having coffee with my friend Jackie the other day. "Do you have a ceiling in your kitchen?" I asked jealously.

"Yes," she said cautiously.

"I suppose you have full electrical power, too? " I sniffled.

After I told her the ceiling story she gave me the name of a psychiatrist who helped her when her son rewired the living room and almost burned down the house.

I'm not sure if I'll ever have a kitchen ceiling again. It took Michelangelo four years to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling, so I shouldn't expect my husband and son to install and electrify ours in just eighteen months.

But I worry they may have forgotten about it. The other day I overheard them whispering on the phone about installing a new bathroom floor. I'm terrified. The bathroom is one of my favorite rooms! I use it everyday. If these two take over, heaven knows how long I'll have to take sponge baths at the corner Chevron station.

Biographical Sketch - Mary Mendoza

Madcap Mary Mendoza, formerly known as Hurricane Mary, lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, son, three cats and 200,000 Sunset magazines.

Madcap's humor columns and feature stories have appeared in publications around the Northwest as well as online. She is the author of The Adventures of Madcap Mary, a collection of humorous stories. Madcap can be reached at mcmendoza@ispiral.com. Visit Madcap's site! http://www.madcapmary.com.