wideeyedfunk

Tag: bathroom renovation

  • One year and three months in the bathroom.

    The WideEyedHousehold spent the last fifteen months without a bathroom door, shower, sink, or toilet more or less sequentially. This embarrassingly long duration of inconvenience was, of course, the fault of unadulterated laziness and winter ennui. In recent days we bootstrapped ourselves into finishing the job.

    More than one year ago, the WideEyedSpouse got to picking at the paint peeling off the 104 year subway tiles (see: 6 Days in the Bathroom). He peeled up the cheap sticky tiles and cleaned pink mold from the antique hexagon tiles on the floor. He stripped spray paint from the tiles around the radiator. I stripped nine to fifteen coats of paint from the woodwork, primed, and repainted. I scraped and sanded the ceilings and walls, primed and repainted. We replaced the tub faucet and shower surround. I bought a new beveled mirror for the old medicine cabinet. I broke it. I bought another one and some glass for the shelves inside because I thought that would look nice. It does.

    WholeThingWe found a 100 year old Empire reproduction bureau to stand in as the vanity. It had a 1930s St Louis bus token in it. And an envelope taped to the bottom of a drawer. We shook with excitement. It was empty. After months of looking at all, at ALL of the sinks online we bought the sink and faucet.

    An exhaust fan went in, which necessitated some filthy attic labor. Blown in insulation has flaws.

    We tore out the cheap vanity and whacked it with a sledge in the back yard. It exploded. We sorted through 500,000 used bathroom tiles at the Reuse store to find the 23 that were antique subway tiles. I think the Spouse caught the plague there. We tore out the (cracked) toilet. The old one had been held in place by insulfoam. If you know something about toilets, you’ll understand that the WideEyedDiningroom below was one scary flush away from…something unpalatable.

    We scrubbed the tile walls with vinegar. We remasticked loose tiles, placed new (old, resued) tiles where some had disappeared over the years. Grouted. Miserable. I scrubbed the floor with an Oxyclean solution. It took days. I don’t like to think about what came up and I hope my gloves were thick enough. We remasticked loose tiles, placed new (old, resued) tiles where some had disappeared over the years. Grouted. Miserable.

    CurtainThe new toilet went in and it has a dual flush button: low water and more water. What luxury to not have to creep down the night dark steps to the halfbath.  The new vanity, all waterproofed with coats of Waterlox, went in. Yes, I turned the fan on in a dog hairy and dusty room while the new varnish was drying. Let’s not talk about that. The Spouse remodeled the drawers to fit around the plumbing. I bought a tissue box caddy on etsy. I made curtains.

    It sounds so simple, just listed out like that. It wasn’t. It stunk. Mostly it stunk. Shopping online wasn’t terrible. But the rest of it was filthy, even unsanitary, grueling, meticulous labor. Although it sure is clean now.

    The moral of the story: don’t start peeling paint (or wallpaper for that matter) no matter how tempting the little loose bits look.

  • I know I would paint better if I had a pair of Dickies painters pants.

    Wine: Does Not Impair My Ability to Paint Awesomely.

    I own a nice brush. I bought quality paint. I sanded and primed properly. I’ve painted ceilings, walls, trim, floors in 5 different states, 6 different domiciles. Satin, flat, matte, semi-gloss, stain, paint stain, epoxy, and varnish. Interior, exterior, basement, attic, kitchen.You name it. I’ve painted it. And while I’m no pro, I can lay some paint.

    But you know what? I was standing in Sherwin Williams the other day waiting for my paint to shake and I saw that their Dickies painters pants were on sale. It was a really good sale, only $18. That’s a great price for any kind of pants, an exceptional price for magic skill infused painters pants. I didn’t buy them.

    Here we are, a little more than 24 hours later and I am commencing with painting the bathroom. I am all geared up in my ladies Carhartts and I am feeling ill-prepared. Queasy that I could do better.

    Don’t mistake the situation. The ladies Carhartts are good, solid pants. They lived in 3 states with me. They traveled to 3 continents with me. They knelt with me inside them in the mud of a 4,000 year old whale hunting household in Chukotka. They crouched with me in 27,000 year old cave deposits in Portugal – where they also worked with me on a 100,000 year old Neanderthal beach camp. These pants and I have spent weeks on survey in the Western Aleutian Islands.

    Now, here in Buffalo, they are paint pants. But the trouble is, the thing that keeps bugging at my mind, they are FIELD pants really. Not paint pants at all.

    I just have this terrible feeling that I do injustice to the pants by painting in them, and injustice to the bathroom paint jobs by not having the proper pants on for the job.

    The magic pants!

    UPDATE, REMARKABLE UPDATE: From 1,500 miles away, WideEyedCousin D had my local Sherwin Williams store put aside a set of painters pants just for me. WideEyedCousinD, I thank you, the paint thanks you, and the house is ever-so-grateful. The Carhartts just want to hug you.

  • Has the stripper arrived yet?

    Pop quiz: Why did the Spouse survive asking me, “Has the stripper arrived yet”?

    A: He didn’t.

    B:  He did, but he is very busy picking rock salt from his backside at his new house.

    C: He meant, of course, “has UPS delivered the gallon of Multi-Strip non-toxic paint and varnish remover?”

  • 6 Days in the Bathroom with Dental Probes and a Razor Blade

    I promise you, it is safe to read on. This isn’t about mental health. It isn’t about a hostage situation. It has nothing, whatsoever, to do with home veterinary surgery. It is about antique tiles and latex paint, achieving their disunion, and bothering with old things.

    Once upon a time, Buffalo was the center of the universe and Olmsted’s parks were filled with flowering vines, nannies and prams, horses and bicycles. In this 1912 world of hope and money, Mr. and Mrs. Butler built my house. Its rooms were airy, the windows numerous. The bathroom gleamed with state of the art, antiseptic white subway tiles and tiny hexagonal floor tiles. Let’s imagine it was a joy to clean – for the woman who lived in the attic room, whose own toilet was in the basement.

    Mr. Butler died fairly young in 1920. He spent only 10 years shaving in front of the shiny, new bathroom mirror. Catherine, his widow, sold the house within two years. As I picked latex paint from grout lines among the tiles next to the toilet with my sickle dental probe, I thought about her getting up the morning after her husband’s death, and facing the future in that same mirror. The Kaeselaus bought the house and stayed, one generation after another, for 40 years.

    I imagined Mr. Kaesalau rinsing the cold sweat of disaster from his face on October 24, 1929 as I razored the paint from tiles near where the old sink was. As I stretched behind the radiator I wondered if Mrs. Kaesalau and her daughter dried their flimsy World War II stockings on it – Mr. Kaeselau was gone by then, and their sons may have been at war. What happened that Gladys, the daughter, inherited the house in 1955 instead of one of the sons? Why did she sell it to Mrs. Moni in 1962?

    I do know that Mrs. Moni redecorated the house during her 30 years, using wood and melamine paneling. But she left the bathroom tiles alone – although maybe she is the origin of the vibrant turquoise paint I picked and scraped from the top rail tile…maybe she is responsible for the deep smoke patina in the tiles and on the house’s woodwork. I squeezed under the clawfoot tub to get to the paint back there, and envisioned a 1970s, fading glory, over middle aged woman lounging in a pink bubble bath. Chain smoking. With a martini. Didn’t everyone smoke and drink martinis in the 70s?

    Mrs. Moni died, although hopefully not in the tub, and a series of folks moved in and out. Someone fixed the kitchen. Someone took out the paneling. Some couples divorced, others lost the house in foreclosure. I figure a lot this drama was acted out in the bathroom. The tiles I freed from their latex coat along the side wall probably saw their share of weeping and wailing, screaming and hairbrush throwing. But they survived it.

     Approximately 98 years into their life on the wall, the tiles were covered with a slick coat of white latex paint. Age marks, patina, old holes from old toothbrush holders, missing grout gaps, mysterious stains – all were covered in a clean wash of white. It’s awful. It’s sad. And after several days of quiet picking and scraping, the old tiles are again witness to life and history.

    Are they unlovely? Sure, in some places. Do they look old? You bet. Would a sledge hammer have been quicker? Absolutely. Would I do it all over again – spend days picking and razoring paint? Yeah, I would. In fact, removing the glue and goo of new tiles from the hexagons on the floor is next.

    I’ve seen bathroom tiles that are 2000 years old. Ok, maybe the bathroom around them is gone, but they are still there. I’ve used the bathroom next to tiles that are 200 years old. Yes, they were a little sketchy. No, I didn’t mind. Old isn’t bad. Old lets us think about the passage of time. 100 year old bathroom tiles? Entirely worth six days with some probes and razor blades.