Bathroom Remodeling - The Madcap Method

She's back in a muddle again

By Mary Mendoza

I woke up knowing camel was the answer. But what was the question? Oh, yes, now I remember.

"What color should we paint the bathroom, honey?"

"Paint is the least of our problems; we haven't even started demolition," my husband Antonio said.

"Stop it. You know that word scares me," I said.

"Paint or demolition?"

"Both," I said.

"This is no simple one-day project; there's going to be a mess."

"A mess doesn't bother me as long as I get my fantasy bathroom: a Roman spa with tromp l'oeil walls, Portuguese cork floors, romantic lighting, thick Turkish towels, hibiscus-scented soaps, and new chrome fixtures …"

"Can it! All we need is a working toilet and a new sink," he said.

"Remember you promised me two years ago we'd remodel the bathroom my way?" I said.

"If we did it your way, we'd have to take a third mortgage on the house!"

"This remodel will be a fun family activity that will pay for itself," I reassured him. "This Old House says we'll see a 82 percent return on our investment."

"I wish This Old House was paying for it."

Inside the world's ugliest bathroom

When we moved into our house we noticed right away that the shower head was only three feet high. The previous owner had been a munchkin in The Wizard of Oz. Her husband, a former six-foot-five guard with the L.A. Lakers, told me he hated that shower. They are now divorced.

Equally alarming was the décor. A sputtering neon light cast an eerie glow over the grungy one-sink vanity which was topped by stained pink laminate. The 1950s era shower walls featured a mildewed scene of hula girls under swaying palms. A hideous volcanic-like substance, disguised by fuzzy pink pajama fabric, covered the floor. Rusty towel racks clung to the spongy pea-green wallpapered walls. The only window -- a relic from the Aluminum Age -- was held in place by fifty years of cheap paint. Some fool had replaced the antique doorknob with a $2 Kmart special.

"Wow!" I exclaimed. "We definitely qualify for the "Ugliest Bathroom" contest." (http://www.americanstandard-us.com)

(Recent entries revealed furry toilet seats, plumbing jutting out of floors, shag carpeting, psychedelic wallpaper, swag lights and in one case, orange ceramic tiles that attacked its owners. The real legacy of the 1970s is not Nixon or Watergate–it's repulsive bathrooms. It should be noted, however, that many of the ugly BEFORE bathrooms were nicer than ours.)

Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, a tiling we will go!

With visions of sunken tubs and travertine tile dancing in our heads, we decided to tackle the remodel ourselves. It couldn't possibly be any worse than coping with our twice-flooded kitchen or the window project from hell.

The shower walls would be the first to go. I picked out an "Aegean" blue-green Wayne Newton-inspired ceramic tile. It was only after our special, non-returnable order arrived from Vegas that we discovered there was no matching soap dish and the color had been discontinued.

Soldiering on, Antonio tore the shower enclosure down to its studs. The weeks that followed were filled with the usual chaos – massive power outages and water shortages, boxes of towels and toiletries scattered around the living room, a close call when he almost fell through the floor, and a shouting match with a sales clerk over a reciprocating saw.

Finally it was tile time.

"Honey, listen to this," I said, reading from a tile manual. "Start in the middle of the wall and work out. All vertical lines must be plumb. Gee, I wonder what that means."

Fast forward to the next day. What transpired earlier is inappropriate for a family website. I will simply say it involved slithery green gunk and red-hot tempers.

"We have been to hell and back and it is called tile. Ceramic tile. The kind you install in your shower if you're completely insane," I told a contractor on the phone a few days later.

"Is this Mrs. Mendoza, by any chance?" Tile Man asked.

"Yes, how'd you know that?"

"I've heard about you."

"Only good things, I hope," I laughed heartily.

"Uh, yeah, sure. What's the trouble?"

"My husband and I tried to install ceramic tile ourselves and it was a disaster. I'd like you to come and give me an estimate to finish the job."

Tile Man wasn't available for a week. In the meantime I suggested Antonio complete a project we'd been meaning to do for months – install a light in our son's closet.

He bought a roll of extra thick electrical wire and cracked open the ceiling while I toured lighting companies looking for the perfect fixture.

When I returned only his feet were visible through a gaping hole in the ceiling. Then I looked closer. Something sparkly was dangling next to his right foot.

"That's a live wire!" I screamed.

"Ouch!" he yelped, hitting his head against a beam. "I disconnected the power, you ninny. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"Ah, er, no darling, of course not. I'm sorry. I'll just go back to what I was doing - making you a gourmet dinner!"

The next day I noticed the wall switch was upside down. When I pointed this out, he ignored me.

Later that afternoon, Tile Man drove over in his $50,000 truck to tell us we're short on bull noses (who isn't?). We switched to Plan B: drove around in circles for days hunting for bull noses. Not finding any, admitted defeat and ate dinner.

Plumb crazy

We had a pipe problem. Another example of someone's misguided remodeling efforts, they were a weird pretzel-like configuration that took up half the vanity.

The first of three plumbers who came to access our pipes was a gloomy guy who gave us a $950 estimate. The next expert told us our pipes were so screwed up it'd take $2,000 to fix them. He'd have to dig a trench the size of the Panama Canal under the house, and hire subcontractors to shore up beams and demolish two walls. A personal check or money order was fine. Plumber number three took one look at our hopeless little pipes then had the audacity to suggest we bag the entire remodel.

"Balderdash!" Antonio yelled.

He'd fix the plumbing himself at those prices! We'd save enough to buy the centerpiece of our bathroom remodel – my vanity fair.

Biographical Sketch - Mary Mendoza

Madcap Mary Mendoza, formerly known as Hurricane Mary, lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, son, three cats and 200,000 Sunset magazines.

Madcap's humor columns and feature stories have appeared in publications around the Northwest as well as online. She is the author of The Adventures of Madcap Mary, a collection of humorous stories. Madcap can be reached at mcmendoza@ispiral.com. Visit Madcap's site! http://www.madcapmary.com.