Simply the Best

There was a wild moment, when our bathroom remodel was just a glimmer of a dream, when that dream included doing much of the work ourselves. I mean, how hard is it to strip wallpaper? Slap on some paint?

Friends, if you are considering a remodel the very best investment you can make is hiring the very best people to do the work. I would offer as proof of this the four stitches in my left forefinger that were necessary a few days ago when a razor blade being used in a craft project went seriously off track. Power tools? Not likely. But at least we know now that my blood thinners are working just fine.

From first day to last, the craftsmen we hired were superb. I could rhapsodize all day about how wonderful the carpenter was, how I appreciated his matter-of-fact, this-isn't-a-problem, let's-get-it-done attitude, how he cleaned up every single day so that we were traipsing through as little disruption as possible, how he CARRIED A CAST IRON TUB DOWN THE STAIRS PIECE BY PIECE, how he was a non-disruptive presence in the house. (Well, as non-disruptive as possible while a cast iron tub is being carried down the stairs piece by piece, but you get my drift.)

The tile guy I've already written about, the plumbers and electricians dealt with the quirks of a century-old house with good humor and excellent advice, and even the shower door installation guy showed up on time and cleaned up when he left.

But in addition to kudos for the carpenter I have to shout out once more to the craftsman who built the vanity.

You see today's anchor photo? These science lab tables were sold in an auction of surplus property from Small Town's old middle school, and Husband was the successful bidder for the heavy old beasts. We had been talking about converting a piece of furniture to be a vanity, but none of the old buffets or dressers we had inspected in antique shops spoke to us.

And then, those old tables literally did just that:

Our woodworking craftsman is just a kid: C. is the son-in-law of a friend who had worked closely with me at Small College, a guy who is the same age range as our Boys. I had seen pictures of his projects, though, and they were gorgeous, so we called him over to see the beastly science tables.

Could he make something beautiful out of them? Oh, and it had to fit in the same space as our old vanity. And we didn't want to do a lot of intrusive plumbing work. Also, I love the graffiti--any chance of saving that? And one more thing--our first Lovely Girl, unlike the family into which she married, is tiny. Could he make the vanity taller than usual for those of us who don't bend as well as we used to, but add a little Lovely Girl Step that could be stowed when not in use?

C. grinned. Then he loaded one of those horrid tables onto his trailer and drove away. Two weeks ago he and a burly assistant hauled the renovated vanity up to its new home.

Oh, people. This vanity. To refresh your memory, here it is in its beautiful, useful entirety.

But it's the little touches I love most. See the toilet paper holder and towel rods that C. made out of old-looking industrial pipe? They are better than what I could have asked for.

The Lovely Girl Step we wanted? Here it is ready for action:

 And here it is folded up and held in place by a magnet backing:

C. is an artist and he created exactly what we wanted, down to the preserved graffiti under its waterproof finish.

It still speaks to me.

Introducing the Taj MaJohn

I am assuming there will come a day when the doorbell will ring and I won't fling open the door and say "Come on in! Want to see the new bathroom?"

The mailman is hoping that day comes soon.

You know how you plan a project, and you wait and wait and wait and save money for it, and you put up a Pinterest board with nine sections and 209 pins, and you spend five times more than you originally thought you would, and then you hate it?

One of those things did not happen at the House in the Corner.

People, I flat-out love our new bathroom. It is everything I hoped it would be, and I'm just going to go ahead and show you all the before-and-afters then spend the next few six months boring you with the process and the decision-making and what we'd do differently if we were remodeling another bathroom. (Spoiler: Exactly one thing. One minor thing. Also, we're never remodeling another bathroom.)

So. Let's refresh your memory.

The upstairs bathroom had last been remodeled sometime in the 1970s, which we could pinpoint by the use of harvest gold fixtures. (I could do an entire post on how I would vote for any candidate promising a law banning all fixtures and appliances in any color but white, but I will spare you that post.) Some time around 1996 we slapped a coat of lipstick on that pig by painting the (veneer) vanity and putting up some wallpaper and then for the next two decades we spent all of our money on gallons of milk and shoes that were outgrown between the time the Boys tried them on and when they walked out of the shoe store.

Finally, last year, the bathroom remodel rose to the top of the expenditure queue and on January 2 the first workman showed up. Last Saturday the last workman left, and hey! Come on in! Want to see the new bathroom?

Don't disparage my wallpaper--I loved it 22 years ago.

Again refreshing your memory: The bathroom is actually two rooms, the east room (above) that contains the vanity and toilet, and the west room that contains only the shower. This is a dandy set-up for a large family in which modesty is prized because tooth-brushing and showering could be accomplished by two Boys simultaneously. So the door you're looking at goes into the hallway.

After!

This vanity. Oh, my heavens, this vanity. A complete post will ensue, but this is the artistry of a young Small Town craftsman who repurposed a middle school science lab table Husband bought at a surplus auction. It is very possible our own Boys did experiments at this very table, and it is my favorite.

Now you have walked over to the east door, and you're looking all the way through the two rooms to the laundry room door. Notice that it is no longer possible to get a harvest gold toilet seat replacement. It's an advance of civilization.

But a new tall height toilet comes with a matching toilet seat! You can see here the only structural change: The connecting door was widened to accommodate what we assume will be matching walkers some day, as we plan to age in place in this bathroom house.

And now you have walked all the way into the laundry room and are looking back at the tub. So pretty! (I did that tile work myself, hear me roar.)

No more harvest gold tub! In fact, no tub at all (there's one downstairs) because a friend who's a designer pointed out that we're not going to want to step over the side of a tub to get a shower when we're old(er) and decrepit(er). She was also the one who suggested the black grout with the subway tile and that right there is why she's a designer.

And that's enough for today. As threatened promised, I'll be delving into some of the details in the next few posts, including the reason I'm calling it the Taj MaJohn. (Hint: It isn't just because it's a splendid wonder of the world.)

Now, though, I think I hear the doorbell.

Come on in! Want to see the new bathroom?

Going With the (Ice) Flow

Kansas, for all its weird weather, does not normally have thunderstorms in February, so I was discombobulated when a peal of thunder clapped just as the instant alert system woke me at 6 a.m. to tell me the school where I have one of my gigs will be closed today. The thunder was signaling freezing rain and treacherous driving conditions. 

"Not a problem," I thought, "since it's not my day to work anyway." And I snuggled down into the blankets and fell back asleep. 

What didn't register at that dark-early moment was that I had been cleaning the house for two days in preparation for hosting my women's group tonight. I belong to two women's groups that meet regularly, one that is un-fancy and is at my house every week so they've seen it through renovation grime and dust bunnies and all manner of housekeeping faux pas. The other group is just as lovely but only meets here once every decade or so, so the renovation grime would be the sole impression of the House on the Corner.  I did not want that and had shoveled out roughly a metric ton of dust over the past several days.

When I came to full consciousness I realized that the meeting was going to be cancelled. This is a hardy group but we are no longer teenagers and this glaze of ice is the perfect recipe for broken hips all around. 

Darn it anyway. 

Clean house, new bathroom all ready to show off, and cheesecake in the refrigerator. For at least 10 minutes I sulked at the wasted preparation. And then I remembered that just 12 hours I had been sulking because this happened:

WHYYYYYY?

Now, instead of being embarrassed to serve this flawed effort to my lovely group, I could put out the call for anyone willing to brave the elements to come over for brunch. Within a few minutes a friend and I were sitting down for mid-morning cheesecake, and it turns out mid-morning is the very best time for a sliver of heavy dessert and a cup of coffee. 

Tonight, when I'm cozy in my jammies and warm robe at 7 p.m., I'll miss my group but enjoy the Olympic figure skating. 

Cheesecake, anyone?

I Am Doomed

Pardon me if this post has even more typographical errors than usual. My hands are slippery, and they might be sliding off the laptop keys.

I am into my cold-and-flu season routine of hand-washing/hand-lotioning/hand-sanitizing/hand-lotioning/repeat/repeat/repeat/repeat/ad nauseum. Or rather, repeat/repeat/repeat and in hope of no nauseum.

Yes, indeed. I am that annoying person who watches the spray from your uncontained sneeze with equally uncontained horror. I am the one pulling her sleeves over her hands before grasping doorknobs, and the one who actually wipes off the grocery cart handle before shopping.

Am I a germophobe? Most definitely not, as my experience growing up on a farm, serving in the Peace Corps, and raising four sons testifies. I enthusiastically embrace the five-second rule and have been known to wipe a dropped pacifier on my shirt before sticking it back into a baby son's mouth.

But, people, may I respectfully posit that this flu season is bringing out the very worst in people, and that by "very worst" I mean deadly flu germs.

A case in point was my Sunday experience. (A disclaimer: I love my church congregation as if they were my family, but this case at which I'm pointing felt like the most bizarre family reunion ever and I've been to some bizarre family reunions.)

Anyway, I play the piano for our congregation's worship team, which practices early Sunday morning. After practice, we always gather for prayer, and that moment involves forming a circle connected by our linked hands.

This year, however, is the worst flu season in decades. People are dropping like aching, fevered flies, and they are DYING from this flu.

Just to reiterate, this flu is KILLING PEOPLE, INCLUDING CHILDREN. AND OTHER PEOPLE.

And 80% of flu, cold, and diarrheal germs are passed by hand-to-hand contact. 

Ahem. Anyway, when the moment came for us to join hands for prayer, I suggested that perhaps The Almighty would appreciate us keeping our hands and our germiness to ourselves in the interest of not KILLING THE PEOPLE CREATED BY THE CREATOR. "After all," I pointed out, "80 percent of flu germs are passed by hand-to-hand-contact."

People, the rest of the worship team laughed. So I stood outside of the circle, hands folded during the prayer, with my own personal petition being a silent plea for attitude adjustment. This plea was not completely successful, as I could not resist pointing out that our congregation also is putting into place a security plan because there was a church shooting in Texas. And that while this is a sad and necessary step, we are much more likely to kill each other with our dadgummed hand-holding and WHAT ARE WE DOING ABOUT THAT?

So. I do what I can, wash-wash-wash-lotion-lotion-lotion-sanitizer-sanitizer-sanitizer and I continue to love the ones who pooh-pooh the Liberian Elbow Bump.

I'm definitely going to be getting the flu.