Locked & Loaded

There are some things that aren't going to change the world, end world hunger, or bring peace to the Middle East. For instance, my ability to replace old, yellowed electrical outlets and switches in my kitchen with bright, shiny new ones.

I'm proud to say there is little in the DIY world that scares me off. Painting. Stripping off old wallpaper. Tearing down old tiles. Replacing door knobs. I've also amassed a pretty decent tool arsenal that even includes a Craftsmen power drill, a laser level, and a rockin' pair of tile nippers. But there's one thing I've steered away from and that's electrical. My fear of getting fried has far outweighed my desire to replace ugly old receptacles in every place I've ever lived. Who notices those things anyway, I rationalized?

But I had just replaced my 1970s speckled, goldenrod tiles in my kitchen with hip, new white subway tiles and somehow the dingy ivory ones just weren't doing it for me. I do have a tool master in the family. My brother, who earns a living crawling around all kinds of creepy places installing alarm systems, is always the one I call when faced with one of these, "I'm not touching this," projects.

But all the parts were sitting there--the receptacles, switches, outlet covers--and I have the patience of a juiced up celebrity on a delayed flight to LA. But that alone wasn't going to convince me I could tackle the hot wire. What it came down to was this: Was I going to let a little fear of 120 volts of electric current turn me into a jellyfish? Hell, no. It was time to face my dragons, so to speak, and grow a pair.

Not without instructions, however. I headed over to my nearby Lowe's and grabbed a book on wiring. It didn't look all that complex and my receptacles were pretty basic: no 3-way lighting; no fancy dimmer switches. Just your garden variety equipment. What complicated matters, was that there are apparently all these variations on the wires inside the box.Who knew?

The other thing I decided was a necessity was a voltage tester. I'd seen my brother use one to test if the lines were hot and figured I wasn't taking any chances. This turned out to be one of the top 10 best investments I've ever made, next to a flat iron and Estee Launder Undereye Coverup.

Like anything that scares the pants off you, the first one is always the one you dread the most. I lined up all my tools--my screwdrivers, needle-nose pliers, my new switch and my new voltage tester. I shut off the breakers.  Piece of cake, I figured.  Getting the stiff copper wires into the right "J" shape to hook around the screws was no less a fete than trying to whip egg whites to just the right "stiff peak" consistency. And then shoving all these wires back into the box was a bit like trying to stuff the entrails back into a gutted fish. Having zilch experience in either of these "manly" tasks, it occured to me that we really should have Eagle Scout training for girls. You never know when you might need this stuff.

Finally, after I'd fastened the new switch in place, I stepped back and smiled. I'd done it. I threw the breakers back on and, with a little trepidation, plugged in the can opener and pressed the lever. There was the satisfying buzz. At that moment I felt like I should be doing some kind of endzone dance. I tasted the triumph that the first upright walking human must have felt when he discoverd how to make something combustible and thought: "I can control fire! I'm a god!" Anxiety, frustration, and relentless perseverance all paid off in one moment of glory.

By the end of the weekend, I'd replaced two switches and three receptacles. They look gorgeous on my new white tiles. The only problem with conquering a fear of doing something is that you no longer have a handy excuse for not doing it. There are all old, outdated electric outlets all over my condo. This is where the thrill of facing fear head-on and the realization that you've just added a new chore to your "to do" list have a pow wow. Yes, I will probably get around to replacing these outlets, but the desperate desire to do them all in one maniacal spree of electric rewiring is, for now, appeased.

Like a first date that you spend all day primping for, the thrill of taking a never-attempted risk fizzles rather quickly once you meet with success. If you're a regular risk-taker who thrives on adrenaline rushes, you turn such fetes into new hobbies. You climb Everest. Race marathons in the desert. Drive race cars at insanely high speeds. That won't be me. I won't be toting around my voltage tester asking people if there's an outlet that needs replacing just to recapture the high of thwarting death by eletrocution. A weekend of bliss is plenty for me.

Drills are Sexy

My nail polish is worn away. My hair is coated in fine white plaster dust. I’m sweaty, and there are pieces of drywall everywhere. I’m on a mission: to smooth down the kitchen backsplash that used to have ugly old tiles so that I can put up snazzy white subway tiles like in my “dream kitchen picture” torn from the pages of Better Homes & Gardens.

Despite the dust, the sweat, and the growing pile of old mortar on the floor, I’m pumped. It’s a DIY Sunday, and I’m locked and loaded with enough tools to build a strip mall.

Here’s a secret guys don’t want us to know and the reason they don’t want us mucking around in their man caves: tools are fun. Not only that, they’re an adrenaline rush. Think about it: with nothing more than a screwdriver you can put up new drapery rods or outfit a bare kitchen wall with shelves. The ultimate high is being able to say: I did it myself. That’s if the shelves are level and the drapery rods don’t pull out of the wall because you forgot to attach the screws with wall anchors. But that’s okay—when it comes to tools, you improve by doing it wrong.

Maybe it’s because I grew up with three brothers, but I’ve never been afraid of tools. My father kept a pretty well-stocked workbench in the basement that, to me, was a subterranean lair of mystery and magic. Girls weren’t privy to the secrets of tools and their power to make things. We were told they were heavy. Dirty. Dangerous. Girls had no business handling tools. Which, for the precocious among us, is just an invitation to touch forbidden fruit.

This didn’t happen right away. I went through my, “Ugh, grease!” period. But when I ended up divorced with a house full of projects, I had to get over my tool resistance, or accept defeat and ask my tool jockey brother to come to my rescue. I hated being helpless.

So I started with a beginner’s set—in cutsey pink that I guess was supposed to make tools more women-friendly. It contained all the basics: hammer, Phillips head screwdriver, regular screwdriver, a small adjustable wrench, and a pair of needle-nose pliers, all tucked into a pink carrying case. You know us ladies: we need things orderly. I got along pretty well with that first set. Pictures were hung; the toilet float was repaired (again and again), assemble-yourself furniture was put together, taken apart, and reassembled in new digs. Eventually, I added new toys to my arsenal: a wallpaper scraper and scorer, laser level, assorted scrapers and putty knives, a heavy duty staple gun, a hacksaw. Every time I decided to undertake a new project that needed some special gadget, my tool drawer expanded. Then it became two drawers. And a couple of shelves in the hall closet.

I knew when I asked for a Craftsmen drill for a Christmas present one year, that I had graduated to a whole new level of toolmanship. Power tools are the bomb. Plug ‘em in and let ‘er rip! Instead of causing calluses on my hands from trying to force screws into wall studs, my powerdrill could zip them in just by pulling the trigger. I soon discovered the reverse mode for taking screws out—a handy thing when you’ve put them in the wrong place.

Knowing your way around tools lets you into men’s inner sanctum of hardware. It can be daunting, at first. My initial visit to a Home Depot was as bone-chilling as walking into Afghanistan. I saw tools I had never seen before—giant, hulking things that belched smoke and could take down an entire wall. Who knew there were different adhesives for different surfaces; that nuts and bolts came in so many sizes (not, unfortunately, a large array of colors); that purchasing a simple thing like a utility knife could be as complex as shopping for a mortgage? (Why does it matter what I’m cutting? Can’t they make one that cuts everything?)

These days I can walk into a home improvement store with the confidence of a woman who knows her way around a tube of caulk. When I go to the paint counter, I remember to ask for my free stir stick and paint can key (the little metal thingy that pops off the lid). I keep my eye on HGTV for killer tricks, for instance: spraying down a wallpapered wall with a mix of fabric softener and hot water will break down the adhesive just as good as the pre-mixed stuff they sell in the store.

So here I am on a Sunday, prepping a wall for a task I’ve never undertaken before: tiling. There will be new tools to buy: a tile snapper, trowel, chalk line, thinset mortar, grout. Yesterday I spent half an hour paging through a how-to book that explained the right way to stick the little plastic spacers between the tiles.

For me, the journey of tools is a bit zen-like. You get in a zone, and nothing distracts you. It’s just you, the tool, and an impenetrable wall. Eventually, you and the tool become one. You slog away at what starts out to be a filthy job, but ends with satisfaction. If that’s not soul satisfying, I don’t what is.