RSS FeedApr 05 2008
Bob Vila Made Me Do It
I should probably begin by confessing that this entry was half-written and originally titled “Bob Vila is The Devil” when Dave Greten, a writer for BobVila.com contacted me and asked if he could do a brief write-up of my place and link to my blog. Somehow, it just seemed like terribly bad manners on my part to have their readership click over to my little ol’ site for the first time and read a headline like that. Plus, I really don’t want to get Mr. Greten in trouble.
Besides, as much of an icon as Bob Vila is in my family, that would also make the next family get-together pretty uncomfortable for me. Which leads me back to my original entry…
When I was growing up, church on Sundays was discretionary. Bob Vila was sacrosanct.
My mother and younger brother, Chris, had a weekly bonding ritual of watching This Old House. They started watching with the first season back in 1979. They ordered all the books published for each season. If we went out of town for the weekend on a family trip, we HAD to be back by 7 PM Sunday night so they could get their weekly fix. (Once we had a VCR we did trying taping the show once. However, something went wrong with the tape and there was much loud wailing and gnashing of teeth like a scene out of Where the Wild Things Are. After that, we simply had to be home in time.) They had the Bob Vila addiction BAD.
Mom and Chris really got off on following the transformation of the latest pile of rotting–but deeply historically significant–pile of sticks someone was struggling valiantly to restore into a habitable home. They cheered appearances of Norm Abram and historically-accurate recreations of molding. They gasped in horror at the discovery of unsuspected termites and home owners who weren’t pulling their weight. They loved nothing better than when critical paths got messed up and contractors started tripping over one another and snarling. The more gory and miserable the growing pains of the remodel, the better, as far as they were concerned. They found it enthralling in a reality-TV-kind-of-way and knew that–like any good television drama–by the end of the season everything would turn out well.
I wish I could say I was as into the show as they were. While I thought the old homes were neat and I enjoyed seeing the finished product, I found all the interim steps tedious, uncomfortable, and sometimes outright painful to watch. There was just so much chaos and mess. The families being filmed had their lives turned upside-down for a television season. Workers on the set occasionally got cranky with one another. And, like many things in life, the remodels never went as easily as initially planned. I always thought the show should consist of the first and last episodes and spare the PBS viewership all the uncomfortable details in between.
I’m afraid remodeling just ain’t my thang, babe. I’ve always been an instant gratification creature. And there is very little, if anything, that is instant-gratification about rebuilding your house. I also have an abject horror of budget and scope-creep for any projects domestic.
That being said, I really wanted my little floating home. And I was aware, when I bought it, that it was going to require some significant work to bring it back up to snuff. I just didn’t want to see another little historic floating home trashed to make way for another modern McMansion. So I’m doing my best to draw on the enthusiasm for restorations I witnessed growing up.
Just the same, if there are many references to Lamaze breathing and Vicodin in entries in the upcoming weeks, please bear with me. I am seriously out of my element at present.
I should probably begin by confessing that this entry was half-written and originally titled “Bob Vila is The Devil” when Dave Greten, a writer for BobVila.com contacted me and asked if he could do a brief write-up of my place and link to my blog. Somehow, it just seemed like terribly bad manners on my part to have their readership click over to my little ol’ site for the first time and read a headline like that. Plus, I really don’t want to get Mr. Greten in trouble.
Besides, as much of an icon as Bob Vila is in my family, that would also make the next family get-together pretty uncomfortable for me. Which leads me back to my original entry…
When I was growing up, church on Sundays was discretionary. Bob Vila was sacrosanct.
My mother and younger brother, Chris, had a weekly bonding ritual of watching This Old House. They started watching with the first season back in 1979. They ordered all the books published for each season. If we went out of town for the weekend on a family trip, we HAD to be back by 7 PM Sunday night so they could get their weekly fix. (Once we had a VCR we did trying taping the show once. However, something went wrong with the tape and there was much loud wailing and gnashing of teeth like a scene out of Where the Wild Things Are. After that, we simply had to be home in time.) They had the Bob Vila addiction BAD.
Mom and Chris really got off on following the transformation of the latest pile of rotting–but deeply historically significant–pile of sticks someone was struggling valiantly to restore into a habitable home. They cheered appearances of Norm Abram and historically-accurate recreations of molding. They gasped in horror at the discovery of unsuspected termites and home owners who weren’t pulling their weight. They loved nothing better than when critical paths got messed up and contractors started tripping over one another and snarling. The more gory and miserable the growing pains of the remodel, the better, as far as they were concerned. They found it enthralling in a reality-TV-kind-of-way and knew that–like any good television drama–by the end of the season everything would turn out well.
I wish I could say I was as into the show as they were. While I thought the old homes were neat and I enjoyed seeing the finished product, I found all the interim steps tedious, uncomfortable, and sometimes outright painful to watch. There was just so much chaos and mess. The families being filmed had their lives turned upside-down for a television season. Workers on the set occasionally got cranky with one another. And, like many things in life, the remodels never went as easily as initially planned. I always thought the show should consist of the first and last episodes and spare the PBS viewership all the uncomfortable details in between.
I’m afraid remodeling just ain’t my thang, babe. I’ve always been an instant gratification creature. And there is very little, if anything, that is instant-gratification about rebuilding your house. I also have an abject horror of budget and scope-creep for any projects domestic.
That being said, I really wanted my little floating home. And I was aware, when I bought it, that it was going to require some significant work to bring it back up to snuff. I just didn’t want to see another little historic floating home trashed to make way for another modern McMansion. So I’m doing my best to draw on the enthusiasm for restorations I witnessed growing up.
Just the same, if there are many references to Lamaze breathing and Vicodin in entries in the upcoming weeks, please bear with me. I am seriously out of my element at present.
