Unintended Consequences of Remodeling

By Lisa Horowitz Brooks

This essay is about a supposedly simple remodel of a bathroom.

Here are some basic facts you need to take into consideration:  I grew up in a teeny house in Paddington.  That’s in Sydney, Australia, not London, England.  My family shared one bathroom between 7 people, which left most of my mornings in cross-legged pain.

Fast forward to Glassell Park, Los Angeles, where I now live with my mostly patient husband of 26 years.  He is Black American.  Not African-American.  He hates that.  His family roots are here, not Africa.  Memphis, Tennessee, actually.  But that’s a whole other essay.  Suffice it to say that he is one of those macho handy type men who understands the finer points of electric sawing, hammering, drilling, how to open things and put them back together–all of which eluded my Jewish father.  It’s a genetic thing.  And please, don’t protest about me being un-PC.  It’s just true. 

As for me.  Not your stereo-typical Jewish princess, except when it comes to fixing things.  A communist-leaning family, always in debt, who traveled the globe in search of . . . what?  I never quite figured it out.  But now, my mother lives in Israel, where my father (who died at 56, possibly from exhaustion) is buried.  My older sister and her family live there, too.  My 2 brothers and baby sister and her family live in Melbourne, Australia.  You don’t really need to know all of this to understand the remodeling story, but it probably illuminates the unintended consequences of my dislocated and dissonant background. 

So, here we are in Glassell Park. Me and my long-suffering husband.  Glassell Park, for those of you who are not in the know, is between Eagle Rock and Glendale.  Kind of a no-man’s land.  Some gang activity, but not in the hills where we reside.  Too steep to climb up with your automatic rifle.  Twenty-six years ago, it was an affordable neighborhood for two pseudo-artists who were poster people for diversity. 

So, back to the bathroom.  Our home, which we bought for $114,000 in 1984 was designed by an architect who built it in 1950.  What a gift!  He designed sweeping archways, built-in closets and lots of other lovely touches—including, but not limited to—The Master Bathroom.   Long before its time, it boasted of an expansive counter-top sink, lots of floor space (over which I spread my yoga mat (not every morning, but still, often enough), and a functional sink and toilet.  But more important was—The  Other Bathroom—actually a half a bathroom that my husband gallantly took as his.  No bathtub, just a shower stall, tiny sink, no space for Stuff.  I have many times attributed our long and glorious marriage to these separate bathrooms, and his willingness to take the Bad One. 

So, here’s the thing.  The wall and the shower faucets on the Good One began to separate—a couple of years ago.  The toilet was rocky.  The sink was held together by a paperclip, or so it seemed to me.  We had several estimates for the work—usually $10,000 and above, which seemed enormous especially in this recession.  So, we waited and watched the mold set in and spread.  The toilet got more unstable, and I had visions of one day floating down the hill.  Or falling through the floor to the basement below.

I determined we would actually make the trip back to Australia in February, 2011—the one we’d been talking about for years.  I hadn’t seen my brothers in 16 years.  I’d never met my 5-year old nephew, my 12-year old niece, and I really missed my baby sister and brother-in-law.  My husband had never been.  Though we didn’t exactly have the money, my calculations indicated that if I didn’t organize it this year, we’d never go.  I stressed about the expense, then put it on the credit card.

And then a wonderful thing happened.  A company, who shall be nameless, caused damage to our home, admitted culpability and we received payment.  We hired our brother-in-law as the contractor.  Our brother-in-law is a licensed electrician and plumber, plus he could be trusted to look after the dogs—a Great Dane, and a mutt—while we were in Australia.  Plus he folded in the bathroom re-do at the same time.  Plus, he promised to get it all done before our return!! 

I left a week earlier than my husband to laugh and cry with my siblings. During that week, my husband bought the tub etc ...  I gave the okay for the basics before I left:  the tiles, the color of the wall.  Not ever having done this, I was not fussy, and went with his and my brother-in-law’s final recommendations.

I flew into Melbourne an hour ahead of schedule, the plane fueled by a cyclone.  The second day, in Melbourne, there was a major flood, during which I, along and my baby sister, her husband, and 5-year old boy were officially homeless.  We adjusted—thanks to a dear friend of theirs.  I slept in their kitchen on a couch/bed and my sister and family (all 3 of them) slept in the bedroom of the son.  My bathroom environment (one shared between 5—was still better than my childhood odds.  But I couldn’t find my shower cap or any of my carefully packed products.  There was no space for my toothbrush.  My towel smelled funny.  But it was an emergency.  I adjusted. And I thought lovingly of the new bathroom awaiting our return home.

My husband arrived in Australia a week later.  We stayed in a serviced apartment in St. Kilda, Melbourne.  We had our own, albeit small bathroom, in which I hung everything I had rescued from the flood.  Not my shower cap. Not my facial cleanser.  Not my moisturizer.  Not my second toothbrush. But hey, it was a flood.  My sister and her family had settled into being honored guests in their friend’s home, enjoying being taken care of, and I settled into the luxury of our one-room apartment.

We proceeded to Sydney a week later where I had grown up and lived for 12 years.  I recently talked to a man who had fled Yugoslavia and returned for a visit.  Everything was just the same, he said.  He recognized the mountains, the hill, the school he had attended, the village where he and his family had shopped—and it was a vindication that it had not been a dream.  I knew exactly how he felt.  All that time had passed and growing up in Australia seemed like a dream.  I would tell people I grew up there, went to secondary school, Uni and worked in my first job—but still it felt like a dream.  Or a fabrication.  But being there, I remembered so much: the bowler hats, blazers; part of the school uniforms, the glorious birds, parks and museums on every corner.  Friendly open people who were eager to know our story.  And I even had a high school reunion with 6 girls, all grown women of course.  But they remembered me, and I remembered them.  And it was just like we were 14 years old again.

Australia was a wonderful adventure. It deserves its own essay.  But this is about Bathroom Renovation. 

We got home.  Many, many hours later, although we arrived in LA before we left Sydney.  It’s a time travel thing, for those of you who’ve never crossed major time zones. 

Staggering up the 32 steps to our front door, we were exhausted, but thrilled to be home.  My own bathroom.  A shower.

The first clue that something was amiss was the gaping hole in the new front door.  Not large enough for one of those gang-members, but maybe his automatic weapon, although I have never actually measured one.  The hallway was covered with white powder.  Not cocaine, my friends.  We are talking construction powder.  I am not conversant in construction terminology, but underneath the powder was dangerous-looking machines and piles of tiles, wood, boxes, paint, brushes and . . . well, I think you get the idea.  The bathroom, my bathroom, well it was sans toilet, sans sink, sans bathtub.

 In other words, a cavernous hole.

Here’s the thing I learned about old houses and remodeling.  Once you start, you uncover decades of neglect.  And so it was with our home.  But please, don’t judge me.  I understand there were terrible, terrible things going on in the world during the time our house was upside down.  A woman drove off a cliff with her 4 children in her car.  Three of them died, along with the mother, and the only remaining live child, who swam to safety, felt it was somehow his fault.  Christchurch had an earthquake which seemed quite terrible until Japan’s, where many thousands died.  Thousands more were dislocated and probably traumatized for life. 

So, I realize this bathroom thing was not a major big deal.  Sure, I shared my husband’s Bad Bathroom for 3 weeks.  I consoled myself by having my hair washed and blow-dried by a lovely local woman who gave me a good price for my weekly trek.  Our marriage survived.

And now, I have this new bathroom.  Here’s the thing of it.  It is a totally different bathroom.  I don’t always embrace change easily.  At first, I thought the bathtub was too big (it is quite, quite huge but brags a Jacuzzi which we have yet to baptize.)  The bottle of champagne is in the fridge waiting for the day my husband and I climb into it.  I worry about my flawed body being seen so close up.  I think water makes you look fatter, doesn’t it?  It kind of lifts things up that maybe shouldn’t be lifted?  Although at my age, that could also work in my favor.  I’m not too sure about this, but my husband doesn’t seem to be worried.  I have no room for my Yoga mat anymore, and need to find a new location to stretch.  But the bathroom is a work of art, and besides that, it is very solid.  The toilet doesn’t move every time you get up or down.  The walls are now covered by large tiles framed with smaller ones that look like stained glass windows.  It’s really nice.  The sink is a clear glass bowl rimmed with green.  I never saw a sink like that before.  I was afraid to use it at first, but I’m getting used to it.  My husband made sure I had good lighting for when I put on my make-up.  I put a lot of creative energy into that process.  I’ve always liked using makeup, the shading and blending of things that end up making you into a work of art.  The whole cabinet is new with drawers that miraculously close by themselves.  I hung up my photos, and the newly framed Gauguin, ‘Nevermore’.

I learned some things during this remodeling process. The world can be a very dangerous place, but you can make your bathroom safer.  Sometimes, doing it right costs more and takes more time, but in the end it’s worth it.  I learned about patience, embracing change, appreciating artistry, and how feeling safe also has to do with the people who love you. And, most importantly, sharing the Bad Bathroom does not herald the end of a good marriage.