Things I learned Laying Laminate Flooring

My wife, The Doc, decided one day that we needed to get rid of the carpet in the hallway.  Why, I’m still not sure.  Personally, I was only vaguely aware that we even had carpet in the hallway.  If you’d asked me to describe that hallway before this project, the only thing I could’ve told you is that it’s the one room in the house with only one bookcase—a fact that probably says more about my priorities than my decorating sense

Now, I didn’t mind losing the carpet.  It’s not like I was emotionally attached to it.  Carpet in a hallway never struck me as a design statement—it’s more like the gray area of home décor, existing solely to absorb shoe dirt and cat hair.  So when The Doc announced that she wanted it gone, I nodded sagely and said, “Sure.”

Then she added the kicker: she wanted me to install laminate flooring—specifically Pergo—something I knew nothing about.  Never seen it done.  Never even met anyone who claimed to have done it.  But hey!—how hard could it be?

Famous last words.

Lesson One: The Knees Have It

The first thing I learned was that flooring is a full-contact sport.  If you ever find yourself inspired to lay laminate flooring, go out and buy the best kneepads you can find.  Don’t cheap out and buy the thin electrician’s kind that slip under your jeans—those are for amateurs who still have intact cartilage.  Get the big, bulky, soft kind that make you look like a middle-aged skateboarder.

You’ll be down there for years (well, only hours, but without good kneepads it feels much longer).  And if, like me, you once had a hurricane try to rearrange your knee and left you with the orthopedic equivalent of a jigsaw puzzle for a kneecap, you’ll appreciate every ounce of cushion.

Lesson Two: Measure Twice, Curse Thrice

Armed with enthusiasm and exactly zero experience, The Doc and I headed to Lowe’s to pick out our laminate planks.  We found a color we both liked and a helpful little chart that told us how many boxes we’d need.  The instructions said, “Measure your space and multiply.”  Sounds easy enough—until you realize the hallway in question looks like it was designed by a drunk surveyor with a love for doorways.

We had seven doorways cutting into our hallway, each demanding unique, one-of-a-kind, handmade precision cuts.  So here’s my advice: if you’re laying flooring in a long hallway with multiple doorframes, take whatever number of boxes the store tells you to buy, then add one more for good luck.  Then add another for all the boards you’ll inevitably mis-cut, ruin, or accidentally tread on in a fit of rage.

By the way, don’t panic when you notice that not all the boards in a box are exactly the same color.  In fact, you’ll probably find even more variation between different boxes—something that doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in the factory’s quality control.  The trick is to open all the boxes at once and shuffle the boards together like a deck of cards.  Once they’re laid down, the colors will blend nicely—or at least look like they were meant to.

Lesson Three: YouTube Will Not Save You

Before I started, I did the responsible thing—I delayed the job by a full day to watch instructional videos on YouTube.  According to those cheerful DIY influencers, laying Pergo is so easy it’s practically therapeutic.  They did it in clean, square rooms that look like architectural models.  Their boards snapped together like Legos.  Their walls were perfectly straight.  Their cats didn’t walk through wet glue.

Let me tell you—none of that applied to my house.

I learned that my walls are about as straight as a politician’s campaign promise.  Snapping a chalk line on the bare concrete floor revealed that whoever built my home must’ve been guided by a compass and a sense of whimsy.  There wasn’t a right angle in the entire structure.

So much for YouTube.

Lesson Four: Tools of the Trade

The Lowe’s salesman tried to sell me a large guillotine-style cutter that looked like something the French Revolution might’ve used to downsize the aristocracy.  I declined.  YouTube suggested I could simply score the boards with a utility knife and snap them cleanly by hand.  Lies!  Utter lies!!!

Within the first hour, I realized that most of my cuts weren’t going to be straight little end pieces—they were going to be long, awkward, curvy slices around door jambs, tile edges, and mystery lumps in the concrete.  In the end, I bought a vinyl blade for my table saw and cut every single board.  If I had started that way, I might have saved myself an entire day and a fair bit of vocabulary that I pretend I don’t usually use in front of The Doc.

Lesson Five: Concrete Is Forever

The real fun began when I tackled the transition strips—those little T-shaped pieces of molding that cover the seam between the laminate and tile floors.  They fit into a metal track that you have to screw down into the concrete slab beneath.

The instructions said, “Drill pilot holes with a masonry bit and screw into place.”  Sounds simple enough—if you’re drilling into new concrete.  What they don’t tell you is that concrete gets harder over time.  Give it forty years, and you might as well be trying to screw into Mount Rushmore.

My trusty cordless drill gave up after about ten seconds, sounding like a dying grasshopper.  I ended up buying a hammer drill and a set of tungsten carbide bits, which did the job beautifully.  My neighbors probably still think I was tunneling to Mexico, but at least the transition strips are secure. 

Lesson Six: The Real Tool List

Forget the “simple tools” suggested on the box.  Here’s what you actually need:

• ·      A good pair of kneepads
• ·      A hammer drill
• ·      Tungsten drill bits (lots of them)
• ·      A table saw with a proper vinyl blade
• ·      A multi-tool for trimming around doorframes
• ·      A string line (for discovering your walls are not straight)
• ·      Measuring tape and dry-erase markers
• ·      A rubber mallet and pry bar
• ·      Utility knife
• ·      Carpenter’s square

·      And, most importantly, patience—lots of it.

Lesson Seven: Cats Are Not Helpers

If you have cats, you already know they consider themselves the project supervisors of the household.  Ours took a particular interest in the chalk line—a fascination that ended in disaster.  Let’s just say they were not reliable assistants when it came to holding their end of the line.

Every time I turned my back, they’d stroll across the newly laid boards like runway models, scattering spacers and leaving faint paw prints of judgment.  I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure they took sides against me in this renovation.

Lesson Eight: Victory (Eventually)

Despite all the setbacks—the crooked walls, the mis-cut boards, the cats, and the noise complaints from the hammer drill — the floor finally went down.  And you know what? It looked good.

Better yet, it felt satisfying to walk down that hallway knowing that I, a man who once struggled to assemble IKEA furniture, had conquered Pergo.  Sure, it took longer than I planned, and I now have a relationship with my kneepads that borders on emotional, but the job got done.

The Doc was pleased, the cats approved (after a few test scratches), and I learned something valuable: home improvement isn’t about perfection—it’s about persistence, creativity, and learning new swear words.

Final Thought

Would I do it again? Well… ask me after my knees forgive me.  But at least now, when The Doc says, “I’ve been thinking about redoing the guest room,” I’ll know what she really means: I’m about to learn something new—whether I want to or not.