Singing the New Bathroom Blues.

The tale I tell today is of triumph and torment. It's a six-day story of pain and victory, of love, labor and a livid lumbar. Grit flowed in abundance, its source the indomitable human spirit and the bottom of a plastic bucket. Lives were changed and destinies altered, but in the end a monument had risen like the mighty avian Phoenix from a scorched Earthscape.

You may be asking, in light of America's crumbling infrastructure, what is this tremendous public work to which I'm referring? What undertaking could be worthy of establishing residence next to such man-made marvels as the Brooklyn Bridge, Hoover Dam or State Route 518 linking Tukwila to Burien?

My bathroom, that's what. Our home is a mid century rambler, and evidently during the 1940s, a single lavatory was deemed adequate for the waste abatement sensibilities of America's post-war families. None of that three-and-three quarter bathrooms bullshit with HDMI hookups and mini-fridges for the hungover toilet bogart of today's pampered homeowner.

Nope, one bathroom, one toilet and one freaking outlet, so deal with it, you freaking twenty-first-century poo mills and the rest of your over-primping broods.

Yes, this area of the house got six times the wear and tear of the next most highly-trafficked area, a three square-foot area in front of the fridge. The floor was buckling, the tiles were swelling and if something wasn't done, we'd be involuntarily relocating our toilet to the crawlspace below.

But first things first; how does one replace a bathroom floor when no alternatives exist besides aiming for a small hole in the floor? Two words:



Honey Bucket. Nothing like single-handedly driving your neighbors' home prices down by merely placing a porta-potty in the driveway and your old commode on the porch. Whatever, this is how everyone operated a few generations back. I do wish someone would've told me I didn't have to dig a pit to put the thing over, but don't most home improvement projects command an El Capitan-sized learning curve?



As you can see, once the underlayment was ripped out (resulting in injury to your obedient journalist, which I'll get into later), the dark spot by the toilet hole presented a healthy helping of sub-floor rot. Woohoo! This alone added about four to six hours to the project. Fortunately, I wasn't about to take on this pig of a task alone.



That's my brother replacing the sub-flooring. Luckily his parole officer allowed him to travel north for the weekend, as long as he kept his ankle bracelet on (which isn't visible here) and didn't allow his face to be photographed. He said he'd rather show off his impressive new ass implants anyway. Apparently they're a big status symbol in prison. He wanted me to tell you he's not even flexing here, that's all implant.

Next up was new backer board (also known as underlayment):



Then the ceramic tile and spacers for the future grout:



I'm telling you, you could bounce a freaking quarter off those fresh glutes of his. Am I a little jelly? Perhaps.

After the mortar dried, it was grouting time:



Finally, the moment to bid adieu to mi amore, the Honey Bucket—'cause there's a smooth white new sheriff in town:



Fast forward another week, and the cleaning and painting are complete:



Although the room turned out well, a dark underbelly to this story exists. While incarcerated those nine years, my mechanically-inclined brother gleaned some exemplary carpentry skills from his various "daddies." He therefore performed the lion's share of duties requiring fine motor skills while I executed tasks involving brute force and superior strength.

Three days after the grouting was complete, I rose from bed unable to point my left foot upward, which is known as "dead foot syndrome." After visiting the doctor and receiving an MRI, l learned that, probably while crowbarring out the old plywood, one of my lumbar discs decided to form an inappropriate dalliance with the nerve root extending down the back of my leg.

To add insult to injury, I severely sprained my ankle while awkwardly planting the weak foot:



Wearing this boot is sort of like how kickers wear a different shoe to kick the ball, only there are no cleats on the boot and it would really hurt my ankle to kick a ball and then the ball wouldn't go very far and then I'd fall down. Everything else is the same.

I'm scheduled to see an orthopedist next week, so hopefully before too long I can enjoy the new bathroom without snagging my pants on Velcro once I peel them past my knees. To those of you over 50, please take care of your back. And to those of you under 50, please take care of your back.

Even an historical endeavor such as this isn't worth the heartache.

All You Can Eat at the Home Show.

If someone had slammed the twelve-year-old me against a locker, balled my pointy collar into his fist  and demanded  "Hey, man ('Dude' wasn't really around yet. We said it sometimes but never when addressing someone like 'Dude, I know, right?'), name a few things that are fun for your parents but bore you out of your conk?"

I'd probably have wondered why some kid was backing me up against a locker to ask me such a weird question, but let's face it, junior high is weird.

Pellets of sweat would drip down the armpits of my nonabsorbent shirt, yet I'd hopefully maintain the presence of mind to stammer out these five activities in which I abhor engaging with my parents:

The fabric store—Holy mother of patterns, time stood still at this place. Oh, how I wanted to bolt from the bolts.

Church—Just being honest, here. This excludes the donuts afterward.

The fair—With fun and food permeating my being, they always dragged us kids through the arts and crafts area for at least the first hour. Excruciating.

Visiting some elderly relative or acquaintance I'd never seen before—Chances were that their house smelled like soup and there would be no kid stuff, since children hadn't lived in the house since the forties. Stale Nilla Wafers out of a faded yellow box come to mind. Old folks—bless their hearts.

The Home Show.

What a difference thirty-eight years and home ownership have made, The times, they've a-changed, apparently, because my wife and I attended the Seattle Home Show on Saturday.

It's kitchen remodeling time, and as parenting icon Joan Crawford once proclaimed, "Now tear down this bitch of a bearing wall and put a window where it ought to be!"

Well, it's actually going to be a bar instead of a window. Like a billion other postwar ramblers, ours contains a small galley kitchen, and we're going to knock out the wall separating it from the living room. I'm pretty excited, but anyone who's ever done this knows there's a pretty big checklist to conquer before the first sledgehammer is fired in anger.

Checking out the Home Show made a lot of sense; everything is one place so we can decide on a bunch of stuff right there, especially the single most vexing challenge: tile for the backsplash.

Individually, the words "home" and "show" invoke pleasant thoughts (Ahhh, it feels good to be home. Hey, lets' go see a show!) but the two placed together dredge up a monotone flashback of profound childhood boredom. Even now, in the midst of a major home project, I instantly Kegel at the mention of the words "Home Show."

After the cramping and spasms subsided, I agreed to spend the afternoon with my lovely bride at the Centuryllink Field Convention Center in search of "The Tile."

The show cost twelve bucks each. While twelve dollars isn't too obnoxious, it still can elicit a case of "All You Can Eat Syndrome." Know what I'm saying? Whether you're in Vegas at the Bellagio unlimited seafood buffet or free pudding Tuesday at The Hungry Fork, consarnit, you're going to get your money's worth.

It's the same with dropping twenty-four for a Home Show. By God, you're going to look at everything. You're going to peruse and linger, to discuss and learn, while constantly avoiding eye contact with anyone in a polo shirt, khakis with a cellphone on his or her belt.

After about an hour and a half, we'd established a nice rhythm but started fading a bit. Kitchens started looking the same and I began feeling sorry for workers in booths no one was visiting.

And that's when she saw it. My wife wordlessly peeled off our path and veered into a decorative tile display.  She zeroed in on it like a father penguin.  "This is it. This is what I want." She pointed to a twelve by four inch swatch of the look and colors we'd been searching for.

"Wow," I said. "There it is. I'll get the rep."

I approached the young woman and gestured back toward our choice. "Hi," I said, "Just a couple of questions."

"Sure, I'm here to help."

"Great. So, we're just wondering how much that tile is and how long it takes to get it."

She slid sideways and scooped up a brochure. "I don't really know. Here's a brochure. Our store is about a mile from here, so you can ask them."

"Um, okay, do you know what size sheets it comes in?"

"No. But I'm sure they could tell you at the store." She turned to address another customer.

"Okay, I guess she's done with me," I said, returning to my wife. "She doesn't know anything. She gave me this brochure and said to go to the store."

"Really, you would think they'd at least know about the stuff they're showing." I followed my wife as she took a turn at the rep. "Hi, is there a way to look this up so we can get some information about this tile?"

"No, actually there isn't." With the stealth of a side-stepping Ninja, the woman scooped up a brochure and waved it  like a magical cure for ringworm. It was the one I'd just thrown back on the pile. "But you can go to our store."

I watched my wife's face. While initially proffering a scowl of discontent, it rapidly melded quickly into her fifth grade teacher mask of resignation and acceptance. "Okay, thanks."

We retreated down the carpeted runway. "That was helpful," I said.

My bride shook her head. "Great customer service."

"Can you believe that?" I asked."Are you about ready to go? We can go to the tile place she's talking about and talk to somebody who knows something."

"Yeah, I think I'm done here."

We declined a hand stamp from a lady in a blue cardigan on our way out and walked into the breezy Saturday afternoon. "Well, at least we found what we're looking for."

"Yeah, that's true." She cradled her iPad under her arm and hiked up her handbag. "I guess that's worth twenty-four bucks right there.  I can just show them the pictures I took."

And that's just what we did. Ten minutes later, we stood at the store ready to order,  my wife poking at her iPad screen until her eyes brightened. She rotated the device and presented our holy grail, our dream tile pattern, to the guy behind the counter.

He squinted. He cocked his head.

He spoke. "Hmm, doesn’t look familiar."