By Mike Gordon
Advertiser Staff Writer

If only I had a dollar for every time someone told me that installing ceramic tile was an easy job. Then I would have had enough money to hire a professional tile-setter.

They spoke from experience I could only dream of. Until recently, when I saved Easter. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Apparently, everyone has set tile at some point. And everyone I encountered made it sound like entry-level home remodeling.

"Setting ceramic tile is a snap. I did it once. My grandmother did it, too. And she's blind!"

Peel-and-stick tile was for sissies. Real men cut tile with a wet saw. They use notched trowels and thin-set.

If you couldn't do this, well, how could you walk through a hardware store and call yourself a man?

Even as I embraced other home projects, I'd always dodged tile jobs, especially the patio. It loomed like an ocean against a beach. But duty called louder this year.

Second Child had her annual Easter Egg hunt to host and Mrs. G. her annual eggs Benedict marathon brunch that goes with it.

"You can do it, Dad," Second Child said. "Like you always tell me: Just try your best."

Oh, baby, when your own words come back to haunt you.

This led me to a free class on tile-setting led by a smirking instructor with a lot to say and no patience for questions.

When it was over, I bought a bucket full of tools, convinced the task was going to end in disaster.

Later, at the tile store, the owner smoothly described each step of the job. I'm not sure, but I think I heard him say something about his blind grandmother as I walked outside to load the tile.

The guy who brought out the tile had a totally different take on the job. And he was blunt, too.

"You're doing this yourself?" he said. "And you've never done this before?"

The guy dug into his pocket, pulled out a business card.

"For when you get into a jam."

I didn't know whether to be angry or alarmed.

By this point in the job, pride had taken control. The tile train had steamed out of the station, and I was surfing it.

Still, setting the first tile nearly ended my marriage. Mrs. G. and I got down on our hands and knees to position the tile, keep it level and not kill each other. The kids ran for cover as we sparred.

The tiles went down though, one after the other.

It took a few days to stop worrying about how it looked and reach a Zen-like state of tile-setting acceptance.

Go to the mountaintop, though, and you'll suffer through the journey.

My knees hurt. My back hurt. My fingers swelled. I ate Advil like some people eat M&Ms.

"It is what it is," I told Mrs. G.

"What it is, it is," she said.

The job took two weeks of slave labor to complete, but at nearly the 11th hour, I saved Easter.

Second Child's egg hunt went off without incident. Mrs. G.'s brunch got a shiny, tiled venue. Their guests left happy.

And I gained valuable experience. The next time anyone tells me setting tile is easy, I'm going to slap them with my trowel.

Reach Mike Gordon at mgordon@honoluluadvertiser.com or 525-8012.