Vanity Insanity

Bathroom Remodeling-the Madcap Method Part II

By Mary Mendoza

Middle-aged obsessive-compulsive females in a constant state of decorating delirium find decision-making excruciating.

Our hideous Neanderthal-designed vanity was a screwball size. We had three choices: remove it and have a custom cabinet built to fit the space (too expensive); knock out the south wall and with it our only bedroom closet (impractical); or install a pocket door (we'd lose a towel rack and I'd lose my mind).

Then Antonio had the brilliant idea to cut the door opening down so we could fit in a ready-made vanity.

He removed the old monstrosity and the door, and over the next three weekends went at the walls with a vengeance.

I was so wracked with uncertainty about which bathroom vanity to buy that I wasn't thinking clearly. Hence, the first one we purchased was cherry colonial Williamsburg -- something George and Martha Washington would have liked if they'd had indoor plumbing. It seemed appealing under the fluorescent lights of the store, in the heat of the moment, but once home it was not French country, Roman spa or anything remotely close to my vanity fair. We exchanged George and Martha for a pine vanity that I grew to hate on the way home. It was way too Cape Cod-Country Living. I must have been out of my mind to buy it, but waited to tell my husband and sons until after they wrestled it off the truck and into the garage. The resulting explosion rivaled Mt. St. Helens. The third and final vanity, chosen under duress and threats from my family, was Canadian maple with a side of bacon. Before we left the store the manager had me sign a contract prohibiting me from returning any more vanities.

When the time came to choose the sink and countertop I went berserk, consulting with marble, granite, Corian and laminate experts in the tri-state area. None understood the real me, nor what I was trying to do in my bathroom. Once again I faced the age-old home decorator's dilemma: opt for cost effective early trailer, or splurge on opulent gold and granite befitting a Saudi Arabian oil sheik.

Ultimately, I caved in and got an affordable-but-deadly-dull, one-piece white ceramic sink that we exchanged only twice. Gosh, those things are heavy.

Soon it was knob-shopping time. I spent mind-numbing hours reviewing millions of vanity knobs on the Internet -- everything from $35 beauties (that's per knob, folks) to plastic glow-in-the-dark Daffy Ducks, to modest ceramic knobs handcrafted by elderly hippies. Unable to justify spending $200 on Italian porphyry, I opted for conservative white porcelain knobs that scream boring, boring, boring!

To everyone's surprise, selecting the toilet, chrome fixtures, ceiling fan and lights only took two weeks of intense study and contemplation. I was told later that installing them was a nightmare; but as design consultant extraordinaire, that wasn't my problem.

Luckily I had only one small window to cover and was able to recycle the Martha Stewart valance from the infamous Zorba the Greek curtain fiasco of three years ago. (Confirming what every savvy home decorator knows: never throw anything out).

Floor fun

Selecting the bathroom floor was the easiest and most enjoyable aspect of the whole project thanks to Steve's insightful articles. In a fleeting moment of clarity (I must seize these moments for they come so seldom), I chose a Mannington "Calabria" vinyl that mimics Italian stone. It is warm, comfortable and cleans like a dream.

Complacency shaken

Things had gone so swimmingly with the floor that I was lulled into thinking the worst was over. This was until I faced my old adversary: Mr. Paint.

"I found the perfect paint for the bathroom, darling," I said, plopping down a can of Frida Kahlo cornflower blue.

"I thought we were painting the bathroom green," Antonio said. "To match the green towels you bought."

"Don't you remember? I exchanged the green towels for the "mayonnaise" yellow ones then changed my mind and decided to go with Mediterranean colors and a beachy theme."

"I'll give you a beachy theme," he muttered, and went out to the garage for his painting gear.

"I loathe this paint," I announced a day later. "It's way too motel blue. We're never going to match the Wayne Newton green shower tiles. There's no point in trying."

My husband gave me his Ricky Ricardo bulging eyes look and stormed out of the room.

"Use a complementary color," my daughter in law suggested. That set me off on a ten-day color-coordinating tangent. Then I had my prophetic dream that told me it was okay to depart from our family tradition of safe primary colors. I chose a beige-taupe camel-color that the Divine Design chick would love. Ricky, I mean Antonio, looked at the paint in astonishment, then slapped it on the walls in record time, before I could change my mind. I know I made the right decision because my mother hates the color.

Mayhem continues

Mid-way through the project, one evening around 9:30, after holding a light for Antonio as he drilled for oil in the bedroom closet (a project he later abandoned, by the way) I went outside to lock my office. As I headed back to the house, I brushed lightly against the palm tree on the deck and felt a sudden irritation on my neck. I swatted at it and soon was writhing and screaming in a Jim Carrey-Jerry Lewis sort of fit. The palm was home to millions of baby spiders, which landed in my hair. I ran through the house screaming incoherently while Antonio raced outside thinking a wolf was after me. He grabbed the closest weapon on hand -- a vacuum attachment.

I can only imagine what our neighbors Nora and Fred thought as they gazed out their kitchen window:

"The Mendozas must be remodeling again."

"It's almost ten o'clock. What in the world are they up to at this hour?"

"Antonio appears to be beating the palm tree to death with a vacuum cleaner hose. I hear Mary screaming inside the house."

"Honey, I'm so glad we decided to let our house fall apart instead of remodeling," Nora said, giving Fred a hug.

Meanwhile I leaped into the shower. When I emerged shaky and covered with spider bites Antonio was fiddling with the TV. Suddenly a green fireball exploded on the screen and it lost consciousness.

"It's only 6 months old!" I wailed. He grabbed the remote and starting punching all the buttons while I searched for the manual among 4,000 Sunset magazines stacked around the room. I couldn't find it.

"Damn piece of junk!" he yelled and fell into an exhausted sleep. I lay there, watching my spider bites swell and reviewing the details of this remodel -- or what we now call Vanity Fair meets The Dirty Dozen.

I'd long since abandoned my dream of a Roman spa like the one Tony Curtis and Laurence Olivier shared in Spartacus. Gone were my fantasies of an Etienne Coffinier-designed room with tromp l'oeil walls, classic French chandeliers, a $3,000 hand painted Italian vanity and matching marble sink.

Compared to our other remodels, however, this one was pretty smooth. No one was injured during the floor installation (a first for us!), my clever husband solved our pipe problem for less than $100, my trendsetting cut-the-apron-strings camel paint is a personal triumph, and our hard-won vanity, despite its prosaic knobs and conventional sink, is functional.

So what if we're missing a few bull noses, the shower tile looks like it belongs in the Wayne Newton Museum for Obsolete Oddities and the neighbors now call me Spider Woman? After all, what do you expect from a Madcap remodel?

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.