Small Victories

Eureka! We have accomplished the remodel of the bathroom on our first floor! I love the way it looks, now. I love that we did it ourselves. I love that what was once the ugliest room in the house, is now one of the prettiest.  I'm feeling a lot of love over here, which is funny because this was, at times, infuriating. It didn't end up exactly the way I'd envisioned. The disgusting drop ceilings are still hanging there covering god-only-knows what untold horrors. Just, please don't look up.  And there is still the matter of the bathtub. Really? A bathtub? Who needs a bathtub on the first floor? I mean, yes, we are out on the prairie, but this ain't a little house and its 2014. 

No matter. It's not bringing me down. No, sir. I'm in love with this bathroom anyway. 

I guess the euphoria is stemming from the sense of accomplishment. Well, that and the knowledge that this room is done, and my weekends are again free until I choose to tear in to the kitchen. 

What is it about accomplishment that feels so good? I'm sure there are articles I could read about brain chemistry and how endocannabinoids stimulate a sense of bliss and... blah, blah, blah. I don't care. I feel good about this project, and that's enough. I'm proud of myself and I am dumbstruck with pride in my husband who rocked our ancient plumbing like a pro. 

Most importantly, I'm proud that it isn't perfect, and that I love it anyway. 

These are those same, old fixtures.  I'm still not crazy about the frilly, glass globes.  As for the bases, we painted over all that brass with a bronze. Then we painted the brown wood white like the cabinets. 

Not to let on to too many of our new secrets, but see this beautiful, gray, weathered, pine flooring? It's actually a single sheet of linoleum that we bought at Menard's for $0.89/ sqft. When the pain of this project dulls to the point that I start to say, "The bathroom wasn't so bad..." I'm going to rip the flooring out of my kitchen and use this again. I love it. 

We call these "finishing touches." You may call them delirious attempts at drawing a straight line through a crooked house. 

Nobody was ever more deserving of the satisfaction of crossing your arms over your chest and standing back to admire your own handiwork than this man. 

It's the little things. 

 Chris had to buy and install new piping to get the sink back in over the new floor. For a minute there I wondered if he'd sail the whole sink through the window and out on to the snow covered lawn. I wouldn't have blamed him. Alas, he persevered and the sink is once again functional and beautiful and most importantly, water tight.

I've heard some people say that after all the years of work (and fighting) they put into their houses, they start to hate them, but I don't get it. We're taking something that was SO someone else's and making it our own. We're finding our way out here in the boonies. It's been a long, hard winter We've been cooped up in this house with all its idiosyncrasies and our own, but we have something to show for it - something that is so uniquely "us." Maybe its all ego. Like I said before, I don't care. I'm happy with my bathroom and I'm happy to be happy.

The Process

My bathroom isn’t finished yet. It’s been ripped up for more than a month. For a Type-A, overachiever like me, this is irritating... like the way the newly cut hairs that fell into your shirt at the barber are irritating. Only you can’t go home to change because you have dinner plans, so you sit there all night long with a prickly, itchy back. It’s right there. If only you could fix it or ignore it.  And, of course, I’m mad at myself, because it wasn’t enough for me to just paint the bathroom and call it a day because the floor was old and didn’t match the new color scheme. And because I wasn’t realistic when I thought putting a new floor down would be a breeze because I didn’t understand I’d have to take the sink and toilet out to lay a new floor. And because it never occurred to me in a very old house with a floor that leans, that maybe water might have gotten under the linoleum at some point over the last bajillion years, and pooled, and fostered a very neat, cozy, little place for mold to grow. And because I can’t just do it all myself, with no help from any one ever, for free. Grrr.

 I’ve been avoiding posting a new blog until the lousy room was good and done.

But then I remembered. This move, this house, this blog, all of it was to learn to slow the-great-jumpin’-jehoshaphats down; to learn to appreciate and be grateful; to internalize the concept that the real prize isn’t at the finish line, but rather the change you affect and the change that affects you throughout the journey.  In short, the value is the experience.

In Managerial Accounting there is something known as Work In Process or WIP (stick with me here, it gets better). Most of us use the phrase work in progress, but not accountants. And while they may be some of the least emotionally accessible people around, the bean counters may be on to something with this. Progress is a state of advancement, a given stop on a continuum from raw to refined.

It is so easy to become preoccupied with progress. It is measurable.  How far have I come? How far do I have to go? When will I be done? These questions run a maddening loop through my brain and distract me from the present.

Process is a method by which something changes. And change is multidirectional. A method of change is far more expansive than a single continuum. Its spreads, and seeps in messy, non-geometric ways. It touches everything.

This house is not my only project. I am right, smack-dab, in the middle of multiple projects. I am working toward multiple goals. But all that work, all the effort and energy I pour into changing my surroundings and my abilities, it all comes together to form one process, my process. Every day I learn something new. And maybe the most valuable thing I’m learning is how to learn.  

So, I’d like to celebrate this midpoint in my bathroom hell. I’d like to take a step back and examine the present state of things, all messy and irritating and unfinished and very, very real. And I’d like to appreciate the process of change.

If you recall, this is where we started: a complete dream in tangerine and brown. Fortunately, the sink is really lovely.  

Somewhere along the way I got it in my head that I could salvage these ridiculous lighting fixtures, and this mirror.

As you can see, the floor is a perfect match for this horror scene. 

The duck egg blue curtain was a nice touch. Mercifully, this was not repurposed. 

This was all sanded by hand, primed and painted. 

I'd comment here about the how the silver doesn't match the brown, but I think we are way beyond that by now.

Why, yes, those are more acoustic, dropped ceiling tiles. Good eye. 

I'm learning that DIY means, to do it with others. There is no way I could have done all of this myself, and I'm grateful to my family for their free, patient labor. I only try to ignore the look on my husband's face when he realizes before I do just what exactly we're in for. 

This room, this whole house, is covered in years, decades of unmitigated filth. It cannot be wiped away. It can only be locked away under layers of new paint. 

This was our first stopping point. It made me want custard in January. 

If you ever find yourself painting trim this detailed, I cannot recommend highly enough investing in several, very small brushes. 

Our laundry room is serving wonderfully as a painting studio. It has excellent light. 

We have two dogs. Their hair will also be forever locked away under layers of paint. 

This is the wiring in place for the lighting. It's probably safe. 

We have gone over these with steel wool to get any surface rust off. Then we spray painted the brass with a metallic bronze. What's taped up in blue will be painted white. 

You do not want to look into the wax ensconced hole that leads away from your toilet. This is where hope goes to die.  

I will spare you the photos of the black mold that was civilizing under the linoleum. It will suffice to say that I came through like Godzilla, wielding a spray bottle full of bleach in one hand and Killz spray primer in the other. The place is now fallow. I only hope we will not have to hear the ghostly cries of dying fungus in the night. 

New floor. We can all take a deep breath. 

This is what we call a solution. The water source continued to leak even after we turned the water off, so we taped the pipe to a bucket and aimed the bucket at the hole where hope goes to die. But, the bucket kept popping out. So we weighed it down with the heaviest thing handy. 

No. We did not call the plumber. 

I'd love to hear from you. Leave me a comment or a picture. What are you in the middle of? What are you learning? What is your process?