My daughter’s Girl Scout troop had a mother/ daughter camping trip. It was a first for this group of 7 year olds. Technically, we slept on (painfully thin) mattresses in a lodge, but we went creek walking, hiking and cooked over an open camp fire (started with kindling, thankyouverymuch). Oh, sure, it was 183 degrees and I was sweating in places I didn’t know I had (even my sweat was sweating), but I endured it for her.

And here’s a surprise for those who knew me. It was a walk down memory lane.

I was a Girl Scout in the same troop from the time I was 6 until I turned 18 and graduated from high school. I spent nearly every summer as a camper and counselor at the Girl Scout camp we visited last weekend, and to my now-adult eyes, it seems so much smaller than it did then. Still, the pangs of familiarity were there: the platform tent where I found a black widow spider as a tween junior counselor; the obstacle course that still kicks my rear (probably more so — there’s a whole lot more there); the friendship circle where I sang many a song; the train caboose where we played and the flagpole where only the best got to raise the stars and stripes on chilly summer mornings.

And to see it through my daughter’s eyes? Priceless. She absolutely loved it and said she wanted to live at camp. Seriously? Maybe I could endure a little dirt. And bugs (but not full time). But spiders? Yeah, that’s still a no.

My neighbor across the street complains that my garage isn’t messy enough.

For years, that’s been my justification for creative use of floor space. I’ve lined anti-freeze jugs, paint cans and garden tools along the baseboards. Stacked tackle boxes in the corners. Leaned fishing poles and hockey sticks over them.

While such neighbor-pleasing clutter provided cover for spiders and cobwebs, it filled me with the urge to organize whenever I pulled into my garage. So, after semi-successfully securing a tool rack, I decided to straighten this out, too.

Starting with a Homer Simpson stare in the shelving aisle, I finally blink and load my cart with a 6-foot section of white-coated wire closet shelf, a holding sleeve, four bracing brackets and a pack of securing clasps. Displaying my goods, I ask a store rep’s advice.

“That should do it,” I’m told.

Encouraged even more when I check the shelves in my laundry room and closets, I’m fooled into thinking — once again — that this project is easier than it is. I mean, how difficult can it be to install one holding sleeve, 13 rear clasps and four support brackets securely?

Quit snickering.

I install the holding sleeve — picture a capital “u” made of hard plastic — on the back wall to start the process. I work the shelf lip into the sleeve and balance the open end on my shoulder as I try to level it for placement. Once again, this would work better as a two-person operation, but I’m stubborn. Each time I move to make a mark, it slips. Despite double-checking that I’m unrelated to Sisyphus and the shelf is level both horizontally and vertically, I scratch several errant marks. I’m sure I’ll know which are the right ones.

Fighting frustration, I adjorn to the laundry room to remind myself how easy this looks to install. I make note of the clasps that secure the rear of the shelf and give a quick look at the brace bar. Piece of cake. I pop the clasps onto the metal rung and turn each in the same direction. As I work the shelf into place, I notice that I attached the clasps upside down. I reverse them.

Finally, I secure the shelf into the sleeve and check my level. I hold everything steady and pause. Which marks are the right ones? I gamble on the darkest ones and quickly drill a screw into place on both ends. Still level! I secure a brace on the open end to ensure all is steady. It is. With all the screws in place, I work the other three braces in place and nail the supports into the wall.

Something seems askew. Checking the laundry room shelf, I note that I secured the braces improperly. Shoulda double-checked sooner. None of them budge when I tug at them. In the process of yanking one out with the hammer, I slice open the back of my thumb. Nothing like a small scar to denote the moment.

As the pride of accomplishment dulls the pain, I’m ready for the magical moment. I place an empty bucket on the end. The shelf holds. Now, the heavy anti-freeze jug, the pest spray, the trowel, the windshield wiper fluid. The shelf takes on all comers.

I swear my rakes and shovels look on in admiration.

I am surprised how such a small task neatens my garage. I also no longer have to worry about spiders dangling when I pick up a container. My neighbor, however, unleashed a few unkind words. Apparently, his wife likes what I’ve done.

This year, I said “no more.” Short of hiring a party planner, I was clueless on what to do. Couldn’t I just buy her a unicorn and be done with it?

In a fit of genius, I made a huge decision. Bill and I drove past our local bowling alley, which is more 2010-awesome than 1970s-awful. I said: “Hey, does the bowling alley do birthday parties?” I grabbed my smart phone and looked it up.

Yes! They bowling alley had a handful of fantastic packages for kids’ parties, and I did a mental fist pump and high-fived Bill.

Better yet, B has a best friend, A. It’s an amazing story — these girls are literally hours apart in birth. They ended up in the same hospital nursery (and I remember A because of her SHOCK of carrot orange hair) and started at the same daycare on the same day by accident. In the past seven years, they’ve entered kindergarten together, had the same first-grade teacher, spent summers in camp and joined the same Girl Scout troop. These two can finish each other’s sentences, look at each other and giggle and, I think, are as close as sisters.

That leads us back to the birthday party. Since the girls have the same friends, her parents joined us in a joint birthday party for both girls at the bowling alley with eight of their mutual friends. We showed up, had a party coordinator who directed gifts to a dedicated room, ordered pizzas for our guests, kept sodas refilled and set two bowling lanes in motion for the girls. There were two real bowling pins for the girls’ guests to sign. They bowled for an hour-and-a-half, and then we went to the (pre-decorated) party room for cake, ice cream and gifts.

At the end of the party, A’s mother and I paid the bill jointly. And we vowed never again to have another party at home.

My shovels, rakes and hoe balance in a grungy garage corner like wallflowers at a dance.

Except their co-mingling attracts — rather than repels — dust, dirt and the shells of desiccated beetles. It’s no wonder I want to get these tools off the concrete with some sense of order.

My plan is simple: select a tool mount and install it.

Already possessing a level, an electric screwdriver and a stubby pencil with teethmarks, I purchase a metal wall mount along with a stud finder. Scattering the contents on the garage floor, I read the directions: insert three screws into the garage wall.

This shouldn’t take long.

Two days later, it’s still not secure. Screw stems are exposed. Metal scrapes and pencil marks surround the tool mount. I hold my breath that the whole thing doesn’t come crashing down.

Here’s why you don’t let a novice handle your handyman chores.

I’m more eager than ready for this task. I position a shovel against the wall to visualize the height I should set the rack. Is it practical for my reach? Check! Will there be room underneath? Check! I hope to make a slight mark, but my pencil is out of reach. My fingernail proves a poor substitute. As will my decision to forego cargo shorts and its many pockets for boxers in a garage that’s stored enough heat all day to bake an 181-pound turkey.

Ignoring the idea to start in the cool of morning, I slide the stud finder across the wall and mark the edges of hidden beams. I position the wall mount so that the open bores rest where beams should be. I place the level atop the rack and chase the bubble to the middle.

This is when I realize do-it-yourself needs somebody else. As I try to mark dots in the bores, either the level falls off or the rack slides slightly or both. After several attempts, I tap a nail into each opening to steady the mount. Unfortunately, I either used the stud finder incorrectly or the beams pulled a pirouette. Each nail punches through the plaster board and finds no secure purchase.

After a more detailed search, I find success. (And I had measured twice the FIRST time!) My mount is level. My holes darkened. I tap a nail into each as a starter for the 2-5/8’’-inch screws. I’m seconds away from completion.

Except for one major oversight: I forgot to charge my drill’s batteries. As they suck some juice from the outlet, I continue with a standard Phillips head. It’s slow but sure. I’m soon overheated and take a long enough break to switch to the power tool.

It makes a huge difference. The first screw zips. But only for a few seconds. It’s got so much 2-x-4 to bite through that it sticks and my power tool strips the head. Trying to be careful on the other two, I do the same.

Since all screws are more than halfway in, I refuse to back down. Never give up. Never surrender. I apply locking pliers and began the slow, tortuous circle that reduces each screw’s exposure. I take so long standing there twisting and turning that I’m convinced my neighbors wonder if I’ve installed a wall safe and already forgotten the combination.

Once each screw reaches about a quarter-inch from flush, none can be turned any further. I’m not happy that three exposed screw stems will bear this weight. I can just hear Mike Holmes ripping me for not doing it right while he yanks it off the wall. On the plus side, I still have all my fingers.

I know a handyman would have prepped better than I. Maybe soaped the screw. Or pre-drilled. Maybe used a shorter screw. But I wanted to fly solo and it’s mounted.

I slowly affix an iron rake. It holds. A shovel. An edger. A hoe. I jostle them slightly. The rack wiggles slightly, but does its job.

It’s been four days and my tools still hang mutely on the wall, ready for action. Maybe the screws will hold. However, I’m not yet confident enough to tango. I’ve started parking my car on the other side of this dance floor.

Meanwhile, I’m eyeing wall space for wire shelving.

No really, I did.

An unidentified foreign object…in my eye. What did you think I meant?

It all started last Sunday. I had been drilling holes into our white kitchen cabinets to install babyproof latches. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until that evening, when I noticed a tiny white speck on the surface of my eye. I felt nothing, and figured it would go away.

Fast forward to Monday evening and I realized that little speck was still there, in the same spot. I used drops, rubbed, even attempted to touch my eye, cringing all the while, but it was in vain. This was one stubborn UFO.

After a bit of back and forth with the eye doctor’s office, I finally got an appointment for yesterday to have it removed.

::Shudder:: I can’t stand to even think about touching my eye, much less to have someone else touch it! Needless to say, I was pretty nervous yesterday morning as the showdown with the UFO loomed.

Of course all my worry was for nothing. With numbing drops in, and very little ceremony, Dr. B simply grabbed a pair of tweezers (okay, I am sure there is a technical name for it but it bore a striking resemblance to that thing I pluck my eyebrows with) and grabbed that little speck right out of my eye.

Dr. B. took one look at the speck and confirmed what I had guessed – a little fleck of paint had flown into my eye while I was drilling on Sunday. The UFO was no longer “U”. And I learned a valuable lesson – never do DIY projects around the home without eye protection!

So, I survived my first UFO encounter. My eye feels a bit scratchy today and my vision is a bit blurry, so maybe that explains that fast-moving bright spot in the sky I thought I saw last night.

Or maybe not…

I finally noticed the symptoms.

Sore muscles. Nicked fingers. Surfing home improvement websites. Pausing for long stretches on HGTV. I’ve even found myself in the parking lot at The Home Depot or Bed, Bath and Beyond with a game plan.

Mr. You-Know-Anybody-Who-Can-Fix-This? is pretty sure he’s contracted D-I-Y fever.

It started slowly, so I should have seen it coming. A little more attention to yard work. A little spackle fix in the master closet. Borrowing tools from Dad. Building a walkway in the attic.

My inner Tim “Tool Time” Taylor grunted more and more as my to-do list waned. I didn’t realize until AFTER infection that I own surgical masks and safety goggles. Or that my tape measure no longer hides in the back of a kitchen drawer. How come my hardware store visits shifted from yearly to monthly to weekly? When did I begin to breeze past the store greeter and head to the proper aisle?

It’s gotten so bad that before I’m finished with one project, I’m planning another.

My baseboards prompt color schemes. Windows dressed with blinds for 15 years suddenly look naked. I gaze at a white wall and think a teal splash with slashes of dark blue would provide a vibrant backdrop for my breaching Great White Shark print.

Join me in the coming weeks as I battle this contagion with unskilled fervor. Find out how long I last before firing up a flare.

But my theory is that for houses, thirty is the new eighty.

It worries me a bit that my home, two years younger than I am, is suffering from some major old age aches and pains lately. 

After finally dealing with the damage last year’s flooding did to our basement, we suddenly noticed some brown spots in the living room and kitchen ceilings.  A leak in the roof!

Then we spotted (wince) rat droppings in our basement which required our pest guys to come out three or four times until they finally caught the little troublemaker.  They had to put metal flashing all around the outside of the house to seal out any future intruders.

Then we got home one day and our air conditioning seemed to be straining under the stress of a 97-degree summer.  So we called our A/C guy and found out we need a whole new unit!

Finally, just last weekend, we heard some scrambling and scrabbling up in the attic.  Uh oh.  Pest control guys say it’s a squirrel this time, which is a little less gross than a rat, but more difficult to capture.  And he got in through…you guessed it – a hole in the roof!

[Sigh]

So it’s time for a new roof, new HVAC system, and a squirrel eradication plan.  I guess these are just the little things we have to do along the way to keep our older home healthy – like regular checkups, the occasional hip replacement and vitamins.  VERY EXPENSIVE vitamins.

The week before last, I visited the City of Brotherly Love for work. I think I must have been a travel agent in a former life, because with careful online manipulation, I managed to shave $189 off my co-worker’s and my hotel stay. Sooooo… I didn’t feel too bad when we were offered an upgrade to a premium car by National Car Rental for $30.

We chose a silver Dodge Challenger and, suddenly, I became a Singleton again. Gone was the booster seat, the American Girl doll accessories, the Happy Meal wrappers, school flyers and the discarded cups of much-needed coffee.

I had power, and I liked it.

Unfortunately, I didn’t know what to do with it. I drove that car mightily, but still felt out of sorts and slightly overwhelmed. I began to find faults, as is common with anything beautiful. The bad (and dangerous) blind spots flanking the back windshield. The boring, primer-like color. The fact that I look completely ridiculous driving it. And, how impractical it would be for my daughter, B, to climb in and out of.

It probably didn’t help that I was driving such a car in downtown Philadelphia. I’m pretty sure I lost two years off my life just navigating a few blocks to the hotel. I live in Louisville, Ky.,  and drive downtown daily, but I feel like I drive in Mayberry compared to downtown Philly. After our interviews, my colleague and I dropped the Challenger in ($39-a-night) valet parking like a bad habit and took cabs.

In the future, I think I’ll stick to the pedestrian Pontiac Grand-Ams and the Chrysler Sebrings. I’m clearly not cut out for hotness.

We’ve had Eddie since he was a puppy and he’s a fantastic 11 year-old dog. But, he’s a big dog. You can’t just pick him up and carry him around with you. And, when you have showings and open houses, no one wants to be followed around the house by a furry 40 lb. Chow mix who wants to be petted and cuddled. So, my realtor, who also happens to be my mom, puts Eddie outside in the fenced yard for showings. But, this weekend we had an open house, and couldn’t leave him at the house. We don’t have any friends that would welcome Eddie for this period of time, and my parents are allergic to dogs. We had nowhere else to put him, so he spent the day at the kennel.

We had an open house back in July and had the brilliant idea to take him and the kids for a visit to Grandma and Grandpa’s (my in-laws) house in Tampa. That worked out very well, and he behaved perfectly. And, he enjoyed the company of Grandma’s long-haired dachshund, Lucky. But, we can’t keep inflicting ourselves on Grandma and Grandpa on a monthly basis for our open houses – especially since they are very active and travel a lot.

So, this time, we ended up spending $35 for the day to put him in the kennel. It seems like one of those necessary evils: tough for him, and on us. Not to mention that it will start to add up, month after month. I do wish I had a more inventive way to spend three hours out of the house with two 7 year-old kids and a dog. Do you have any ideas? What can I do with a large dog for an afternoon?

I’m well aware of my shortcomings when it comes to major renovations, but like to believe I can tackle the small fix-it jobs.

Others don’t.

When I replaced the sliders on a patio screen for my best friend, she politely ignored that they were inserted backward. It slides perfectly but she has to go outside to lock the door.

When I volunteered to help rebuild houses after Katrina, they accepted me as comic relief, apparently aware my home-improvement skills end when the lawnmover enters the garage. In fact, my first day in Mississippi, I overheard the foreman ask me to cut a 2×4 and then turn to a co-worker and say “watch this.” Once I proved I had all my fingers, I briefly got to use a nail gun.

Thus, my idea of the perfect DIY project involves a point-and-click maneuver, deftly followed by a phone call to someone who knows what they’re doing.

Which doesn’t explain my current fascination with HGTV.

Since kudzu.com became a preferred partner of the Home and Garden Network, their shows now run all day on our office big screens. This silent taste of their morning and afternoon fare creates a hunger for changes at home.

But even before we partnered up, I found myself absorbed with Holmes on Homes. I started banging around the house, wondering if I needed to “make it right.”

I sampled My First Place and recalled everything a new home purchase introduced to me. All I had remembered was how many checks I had to write and how much more I had to buy once I moved in.

Cash in the Attic chased me into my storage areas for hidden treasures, but all I found were items ebay would reject. Curb Appeal? I trimmed my bushes, pine-barked the front bed and painted my front door and mailbox.

Hey! Are they prepping me for Disaster DIY?