Power Tool Hell
We bought a house recently. Well, really, its a 900 square foot shack in dire need of remodelling, which we are currently doing with money we don't (and likely never will) have. Hey, it has a nice yard, though, and we can always put up a tent, right? In any case, interior demolition commenced immediately upon closing on the house and the current project involves the kitchen floor. Actually, I should say *one* of the current projects, since there is very little actual house left and my, wouldn't it be nice if we actually built some stairs to replace the ones we ripped out, rendering it impossible to get to the bedrooms upstairs? But I digress and run-on.
Back to the kitchen floor. This house was built in 1912, when hardwood floors were all the poor man could afford. Then, sometime later, someone with a horror of hardwood floors and an appalling love of linoleum tiles (my, what a step up in flooring THOSE are!) tarred over the hardwood and applied said tiles. They were, presumably, a nice pristine white at some point.
Times change and more bad taste items are marketed. So, over the linoleum tiles, someone nailed plywood and covered it with modern linoleum in the usual brain-numbingly boring and completely forgettable yellow pattern thang.
Let me recap: first hardwood, then tar, the linoleum tiles, then plywood, then linoleum.
And I, in my vast wisdom, decided it would be a lovely idea to restore the hardwood flooring. Really, how hard could it be? Just rip the newish linoleum and its backbone plywood out, take a heating gun to the linoleum tiles to pry them up easily, use a stripper to take the tar off, sand the hardwood down, seal it, and presto-flasho, restored hardwood floors.
It has taken over two weeks of smelly dirty tarry disgusting work, but we finally got to the Sanding of the Hardwood today. Now I (again in my vast wisdom) decided that a belt sander would do the trick nicely, since the kitchen really isn't very large and certainly not big enough to bother renting one of those big honkin' push-mower type sanders. No, no, a simple belt sander would do the trick.
I've never used a belt sander before. Where the hell I got the idea I had any talent with even such a minimal power tool is, at this point, beyond me.
The first thing that happened when I turned the sucker in is that it tried to take off across the room without me. Nearly suceeded, too, pompous little sneak. But I outflanked it and in a bold (but stupidly dangerous) move, I snapped it up off the ground and gave it a good shake for its impudence. Then, after a minute of wary regard, I located the off button and taught it a lesson by cutting its power. Probably could have just pulled the plug in the first place, but I was so outraged by its near-escape (after paying $49 for it at Home Despot) that the thought really didn't occur to me.
After that little incident I decided that perhaps I should do a few things before turning it loose again on my kitchen. After all, a loose belt sander in a house built in such a half-assed manner is really not a good idea. So, I figured I had better start with checking to see if it was actually wearing sandpaper (Oh, my, it WAS!) and maybe even leaf through the instruction book. After doing the latter, I felt somewhat less in control of the situation, since I had been doing exactly what the book said the first time I turned it on and there was no mention in the book of the belt sander needing to be broken via whip before use. Obviously, I had the wrong instruction book, but I couldn't let the belt sander know that or I'd be in deep, er, sandpaper.
So, hitching up my special "work" jeans (bought specially for doing work on the house, of course) and taking a deep (somewhat fearful) breath, I reentered the kitchen and faced the belt sander head on. Well, sort of. I actually plugged it back in and said a little prayer that I'd be able to control it when I hit the on switch.
Control was shaky at best. The belt sander bucked and kicked and etched little (well, okay, kind of large) marks in my hardwood floor, clearly trying to throw me off its back. I gripped it with both hands and gave it its head. It dragged me four feet across the kitchen (oh, look--that's nearly wall to wall!) before I could dig my heels in enough to slow it down. It dragged me forward. I dragged it back. We repeated that pattern until my arms simply couldn't take it anymore and I feebly managed to find the off button again. I sat, gasping for air, on the floor for a solid ten minutes before I was ready for Mr. BeltSander's Wild Ride again (definitely an E ticket). We repeated this ridiculous act quite a few more times over the period of nearly five hours. Eventually, as I sat in forlorn exhaustion on the much-desired hardwood floors once again, I looked around and decided that the floors no longer required any sanding. They were perfect and woe to any who suggested otherwise, dammit. I have had my day with power tools and I have found it not in the least to my liking.
As for the belt sander...you may be assured I will be taking care of that little twit of a power tool, and I *don't* mean gently oiling and cleaning it. Why in the name of all that's holy do men find these rebellious tools in the least exciting?!