Why keep doing it?

Every so often, something in our home needs replacing, and we get this wild impulse to renovate some or all of the room it lives in. This happens only after the last renovation has faded from memory, which takes years. But we always embark with enthusiasm and hope. You’d think we’d know better by now.

Renovations are harrowing one way or another. Each experience is unique — and wreaks havoc — in a whole new way. We’re going through one right now. I won’t write about that just yet, however; it’s not finished and I’d prefer to avoid profanity.

Our very first foray was new ceramic tile on a bathroom floor, installed by a handyman we found in the Yellow Pages.* He loudly cursed and banged his way through the job, then tried to leave us with a cracked ceramic tile — directly in front of the sink.

Pointing it out led to more cursing and banging, and left a replacement tile that sat half a centimetre above its neighbours. By then we were too sick of the loud cursing and banging to insist that he try again.

Every time I walked barefoot into that bathroom, I thought of that handyman.

Then there was the full kitchen renovation, undertaken because our cupboard doors were falling off, the counter duct-taped together, and the oven no longer working.

For several weeks our fridge stood in our living room alongside the microwave, the only appliance available to us for cooking. (Renovation costs precluded eating out.) I learned how to microwave pasta, and stretched the limits of our tolerance for canned food. “Beans or soup today?”

Plastic sheeting hung across doorways, which swished whenever you breathed anywhere nearby.

The tile backsplash behind the counter had to be redone because the first effort yielded crooked tiles and bulges. The vinyl floor had to be re-laid because the vinyl they used was badly discoloured. The contractor told us later that the worker who laid it wasn’t feeling well that day. We felt unwell too when we saw it. Someone else replaced it.

These misfires meant Mr. Fluffster had to convince the contractor of the obvious; replacement was essential (and shouldn’t cost more).

The Fluffster offspring and I didn’t get the worst of the experience, as he was in school and I was going out to work every day. We missed most of the chaos. Mr. Fluffster dealt with the planning and paperwork, workers traipsing in and out, and negotiations with the contractor. Happily for me, renovations have always been his responsibility.

One renovation experience that still rankles was the bathroom (tub, tiles, and toilet; see photo at the top of this post) that seemed to go reasonably well until the contractor finished and left. He’d forgotten to install the shower curtain bar. It was late Friday afternoon, so the earliest he could return was the following Monday. We were not happy.

I have more of these anecdotes, but this is enough for today. I need to pick my way through the current renovation detritus in the hallway to get to bed.

* The hard copy Yellow Pages that were delivered to everyone’s home once upon a time. You won’t remember those if you’re younger than a certain age.