You’ve probably figured out that I am never going to be asked to substitute host any of the home improvement shows. I wasn’t blessed with a mechanical mind, and I have the attention span bordering on the half-life of a gnat.
I’ve noticed that projects involving me and the house have a way of taking on a life of their own. It’s not the big projects that get me in over my head—that’s why God invented phones, so we can outsource—it’s the little ones, those fifteen minute jobs meant to be accomplished during half-time, between pizza slices.
Case in point—trim touch ups. Can, brush, paint can opener tool (screwdriver). Head to the basement where all the leftover paint is stored. You know exactly where I mean, yours is probably in the same place. Directions: grab the can with the dry white paint stuck to the side, open it, give a quick stir with the screwdriver, apply paint, and affix the lid using the other end of the screwdriver. Back in the chair before the microwave beeps.
That’s how it should have worked. It doesn’t, does it? For some reason, you get extra motivated, figure you’ll go for the bonus points, and take a quick spin around the house, dabbing the trim paint on any damaged surface—window and doorframes, baseboards, stair spindles, and other white “things”. Those of us who are innovators even go so far as to paint over finger prints, crayon marks, and things which otherwise simply needed a wipe down with 409.
This is when it happens, just as you reach for that slice of pizza. “What are all of those white spots all over the house?” She asks—you determine who your she is, or, I can let you borrow mine. You explain that it looks like that simply because the paint is still wet—good response. To which she tells you the paint is dry—a better response.
“Why is the other paint shiny, and the spots are flat?”
You pause. I pause, like when I’m trying to come up with a good bluff in Trivial Pursuit. She knows the look. She sees my bluff and raises the ante. Thirty minutes later the game I’m watching is a distant memory. I’ve returned from the paint store. I am moving furniture, placing drop cloths, raising ladders, filling paint trays, all under the supervision of my personal chimera. My fifteen-minute exercise has resulted in a multi-weekend amercement.
This is what usually happens when the plan isn’t tested or isn’t validated. My plan was to be done by the end of halftime. Poor planning often results in a lot of rework. There’s a saying something along the lines of it takes twice as long to do something over as it does to do it right the first time—the DIRT-FIT rule. And costs twice as much. Can you really afford either of those outcomes? Can you really afford to scrimp on the planning part of EHR? The exercise of obtaining HER champions and believers is difficult. If you don’t come out of the gate correctly, it will be impossible.
Back to my project. Would you believe me if I said I deliberately messed up? Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t, but the one think I know with certainty is that I now have half-times all to myself.

EHR, there’s a new groundswell against meaningful use. How do I know? I’m starting it now.
Do you ever think about the origination of some of your ideas? For me, the good and the bad just seem to materialize. Like the time a friend and I were hiking a peak in the Sangre de Cristo range in Colorado. It had taken the better part of six hours of circuitous climbing to reach the summit. It was late in the fall, and the temperatures were around freezing. Roiling storm clouds were racing towards us from the west.
The question was raised on the blog Software Advice.
Several have written suggesting I toss my hat into the ring to serve as the EHR Strategy wonk or czar. I was in the process of thinking it through when I was awakened from my fuegue state by a loud noise–my ego crashing to the floor.
Are you suggesting that coconuts migrate? (Not at all, but a swallow could grip it by its husk.)
Those of you who’ve visited previously may have caught on to the fact that my wife likes to keep me away from bright shiny objects such as tools. Let me tell you about my first house, a two-story stucco building in Denver, built in 1902. My favorite part of the home was the brick wall. That is had a brick wall was not apparent when I purchased it.
It’s hot and muggy; a hazy pall seems to levitate before me. We call it Pennsylvania in summer. Chest pain yesterday, nitro in gym bag. Intervals today. I hate running intervals as much now as I did in high school, but they’re better for the heart than just running distance. Twenty-four 110’s. Did I mention it was hot?
Okay, so today was going to be one of those days when I wasn’t going to allow myself to be stupified–at least no more than was really required.

