The Curse of Pinterest (or, what Alice found in the Looking Glass)
PART ONE - THE DESCENT INTO FANTASY
"I hate the shower," said my wife one morning, a relatively benign statement, one no more random than any of the others she blurted out at any given time on any given day.
"Yes... and-?" I replied cautiously, my spidey-senses suddenly jangling with an inner warning claxon that told me that this time, it was different.
"We need to do something," she stated simply.
'No shit,' I thought. We had been down this road before, many a time, and had almost reached an agreement on an appropriate resolution.
In keeping with the theme of the house to date, an eclectic variant of what I called 'beachy-keen', we were going to replace the nasty fiberglass shower insert and its moldy, peeling caulking with a glorious concrete wall, possibly with sea-shells embedded in it, perhaps not, but with a random smattering of dark and light sand added to the aggregate to replicate the beach. But something (likely the army of centipedes I now felt crawling all over my scalp) told me that this option was no longer on the table, a point all too obvious when she hauled out her I-pad and said, "Put on your eyeballs."
'Oh... boy', I sighed (internally, of course, so as not to entice her withering glare of recrimination), and then after chasing down my readers, I took a fortifying chug of luke-warm coffee and said, "Show me."
She scrolled lazily down a page. "Well, I was thinking..."
Ladies and Gentlemen, when a woman says- 'I was thinking...' BRACE YOURSELVES.
She continued, "How hard would it be...?"
STOP RIGHT THERE. It has been my experience that if ANYONE prefaces a statement with that inquiry, the answer itself will automatically range from, "Meh, not terrible," to "Have you lost what's left of your MIND!?", and ANYTHING in-between. It is a question that is inevitably the cause of much anal-clenching, along with nausea, dizzyness, and sometimes even vomiting. A bad case of the Flu is pleasant by comparison. And it was coming my way.
She swung the magical device toward me, "What about something like this?"
A quick glance to the top-left corner of the screen divulged the identity of the destination- Pin. As in PINTEREST. As in the delectable wonderland of crafters, quilters, carvers, cosplayers and anyone else with wild imaginations and WAY too much time on their hands. Pinterest, the diabolical creation of Ben Silberman et al., men (men!) who opened a modern-day Pandora's Box and unleashed the whims of women everywhere to request impossible creations of their over-taxed husbands (and every bit as often the other way around) much to the delight of craft stores and home-improvement centers world-wide. Pinterest.
Now by admission, I have my own account, albeit a small one, focusing specifically on architecture that I use in a variety of applications, mostly related to art and design (okay- and some shoes, and maybe some construction projects, but still), but nothing even close to the magnitude of the veritable Library of Congress that was my wife's personal cache of fantasy. Words cannot even begin to accomodate the range of topics and sub-topics, pages and sub-pages, on and on and on, that a woman armed merely with a computerized device and access to Wi-Fi can amass in minutes. And there is no stopping them.
My eyes glided over the multitudes of thumbnail images crowding the screen as she gazed in rapt fascination at her lovely toy. A crimson-lacquered nail tapped an image, and the screen cleared, re-focused, and brought forth the basis of what would be an all-consuming nightmare for the next ten days. A shower. But not just any pedestrian shrine of modern hygiene, this was a 'shabby-chic' concoction of whimsey and water, galvanized corrugated metal surrounded by a ceiling-suspended curtain. And it was COOL.
Now remember, in my previous existence, I was an Artist and Designer, with stuff like this hard-wired into my brain. And of course, my lovely wife knows this, and can utilize that knowledge in classic female fashion to play me like the proverbial fiddle. "Neat, huh?" was all she said, the tiniest hint of a Cheshire-cat like grin twisting at the corner of her mouth that clearly stated that she knew she had won, without firing a single shot. DAMN. I was trapped, and I knew it, but the inevitability of my demise was swept aside by my own imaginings, and my own vision blurred as my mind drifted off to that Neverland of creation, a place I visited all too frequently of late, the wonderful, magical land called IMAGINATION.
Immediately, a flood of images, ideas, complications and attendant solutions whirled in my brain. The idea was admittedly elegant, relatively simple (or so I thought at the time) and certainly different. And historically, different was all that I was about. In minutes, I had visualized and conceptualized the entirety of what I could achieve with this mundane material, a techno-classy fusion between elegant wood and industrial steel, all tied together with sleek, chrome fixtures that had been languishing in a box buried in the linen closet next to the shower stall. A moment later, after hazily emerging from my self-induced fugue, I pulled out my trusty legal pad and began to sketch, my still-silent wife patiently waiting for my response as she browsed shoes with a bemused smile on her lips. A short time later, I was done.
I had vastly improved upon the simplistic design she had shown me, that being a basic application of continuous pieces of the material attached to some unknown substrate. I had framed mine in walnut-stained and glossy varnished Alder, with rigidly spaced fasteners creating a repetition of line and pattern around the stall. A break in the panels to accomodate a simple shelf that would be for a variety of showering condiments, shiny, zinc plated screws finished with raised chrome washers (beauty rings, I knew them by) instead of some mystical hidden fasteners that would require putty or somesuch, contrasted with the white-painted, functional zip-screws that were de riguer for installing corrugated metal, all tied together with a meticulously applied industrial-grade siliconized caulking to seal it up for time and eternity. The end result would be gorgeous, radiant, a triumph of interior design destined for its own devoted following on the vaunted pages of its original source. Easy, right?
PART TWO - A HARSH AWAKENING TO REALITY
The next day, I borrowed my youngest son's truck and went shopping. Eighty linear feet of Alder, two sheets of 3/4" OSB sheathing, four 8' lengths of galvanized roofing, plus a pair of 4 x 8 foot panels of beadboard for the wainscot (more on that later), and I was off. And as any woman knows, shopping is the fun part.
Removing a fiberglass shower surround from its tub base is not easy, fun, or neat. The unit is not just bonded to its base with caulking, but also welded together with an epoxy compound intended to withstand a nuclear holocaust. Add to that the fact that it was installed YEARS ago, and subsequently dry-walled over, it is designed with flanges that extend an inch or so above the top, so to attach to whatever wall surface lies beneath. Shit. I carefully cut out the sheetrock, and (not so delicately) began to demo the space.
After making a collosal mess in the tub, I had revealed the extended flange, and removed the screws securing it to the wall. Done- right? Pfffbbt! There were also a set of plugs, a bolt, and a random bit of who-knows-what still holding the stupid thing in place. Enter the crowbar. Tugging, swearing and prying got me almost nowhere- what to do? Summon the Hulk.
"Nik!"
"What?"
"Your presence is required."
My youngest boy is the product of a generous dose of genes from both sides of our family- the BIG ones. At nearly six feet tall and teetering on the edge of 200 pounds, the only way I can claim him as my own is to point out the dominant visible traits that we share. Otherwise, my wife must have mated with a handsome, blonde giant. But anyway, once he pried himself away from his 'homework' (I'm sure that watching 'Vikings' has some bearing on his military history class, right?) we ripped the offending object from its moorings, and with our combined efforts, reduced it to manageable chunks to remove it from the bathroom. After unceremoniously depositing it at the side of our house for eventual disposal at the dump, I perched on the toilet opposite my dilemma and took inventory. Lath and plaster greeted me from the interior side of the wall that was my son's closet, and rough-sawn shiplap sheathed the exterior side. A few slats of lath remained but were easy enough to remove neatly, and then I had raw studs to work with. But the water wall was where the real fun began (not!). The installers had framed in a basic support to accomodate the shower handle and its valve, and the attachment for the shower arm- badly. The framing was shoddy, nails barely holding it together, and (this is the best part) in lieu of, oh I don't know- plumber's tape? the fixtures were bound to the wood with 12 gauge Romex. Yes, electrical wiring was used as a fastener- in a house. I meticulously cleaned the remaining debris from the tub, since we were now reduced to baths for a while, and went to bed.
The next morning, I awoke, eager to begin. Over my first cup of coffee, while laying out all the new fixtures to familiarize myself with what I was up against, I noticed a curious bit of fine print on the box- 'valve not included'. Eh, WHAT? The warning bells I had heard a few days ago tolled faintly in the back of my mind, but it wasn't until I re-read the installation manual that I heard the other shoe drop, again in the form of ridiculously fine print- This device works only with the Pfister OX8 valve system, no other fixtures will work (or somesuch). Shit. My wife had ordered the fixtures of her dreams on Amazon, another Pandora's Box of Modern Consumerism (but that is a topic for another day) and of course failed to mention (or notice) this highly significant issue. Double-shit. I went to inspect the existing valve, to see if perhaps I could make the new fixtures work anyway- No way, Jose. Not only that, but the water feeds were PEX. For those of you who don't know, PEX (cross-linked polyethylene) pipes are the shiny new thing. They have been used extensively in Europe for years, but until recently haven't been an option here in the States. They have advantages, such as simplicity of installation, flexibility (this is important in situations where the usual copper is complicated- say, in old houses like those in Europe, or in this case- mine.) and low cost. All I needed was to learn out how to use them- fast. Since my lovely wife was still aslumber, I read up on PEX until I could elucidate her as to our new dilemma.
As I came to full awareness due to the influence of my second cup of coffee, I called various plumbing houses to determine if they stocked our absent necessity. The first call, to a reputable supply house, not only was greeted with disdain for our product (apparently Pfister is frowned upon by self-respecting plumbers) I learned that this mythical creature was largely unavailable- anywhere. Fuck. (This is the next level up from 'double-shit'.) Now I deigned to enjoin my beloved in our now MUTUAL issue. The conversation went something like this-
"Honey?"
"Mrrrff?"
"We have a problem."
"Mrrghph."
"Can I make you a cup of tea?"
"Grrrmph!"
"A London Fog?"
"Pfffshhh!"
Essentially, that was a grim accedance of acknowledgement, albeit with her eyeshade still denying day, that she was awakening, though reluctantly, on a day she had designated to sleep in- forever. I padded back down to the kitchen, and multi-tasked by searching the Savior that is Amazon for a solution while I prepared her libation. Yup, they had it, and the price was about 20% below local retailers. And would arrive just as soon. Okay, hope springs eternal- and I went about preparing the most glorious offering of London Fog I could offer.
As I re-entered the bedroom, I gallantly placed the steaming beverage on her nightstand and waited for an actual verbal response.
"Why did you wake me?"
I handed her the instruction manual by way of responding, the fine print dutifully highlighted. She squinted one-eyed at the paper, the other eye still apparently unwilling to acknowledge the light, and then said, "What does this mean?"
I rolled my eyes and bit my tongue, since apparently English-to-woman translation was necessary. "It means we aren't getting our shower as soon as we thought."
"Oh, shit," she moaned. Ahh, now she understood. "So what do we do?"
I explained my earlier explorations and told her that with her Prime account, she could get it here as soon as anyone else- and cheaper.
"Errgh!" she groaned. Back to vocalizations. She sipped, and recognizable language emerged. "Okay, let me drink my tea first."
AND SO WE BEGIN...
As I watched with a tiny grin creasing the corner of my mouth, I marveled as she adroitly danced her way through the necessary machinations of browsing Amazon for what we wanted (A sidebar here- I hate shopping online. But it is indeed a Godsend, I am just not as adroit at it as others. Yes- I used a form of 'adroit' again. It's a great word- so sue me.) Anyway, within minutes she swung the tablet around and asked with a tinge of humorless vitriol and a sigh, "Is this it?"
I glanced at the image. Yup, that's the one. I thought, and said, "Yup, that's it." There, displayed for us to see, was a Pfister OX8 valve. The very animal we needed.
"It'll be here Monday," she muttered, and went back to slurping her tea. By the way she focused her attentions on the depths of her cup, I knew it was going to be one of THOSE days. Without another word, I ninja-ed my way back downstairs to concoct another delicious libation for her enjoyment. Ahh- reprieve. I waited for her to get sucked into another possibly ENDLESS persual of infinite PINTEREST pages, I quietly showered and planned my attack.
First up was the rough-in. If there is one thing- the PENULTIMATE thing, that I have discovered with this house, it is that NOTHING IS SQUARE. Zero. Nada. Nothing. For starters, the tub slopes at a rate that is significantly more than intended. Granted, a tub basin should slope, that's kinda the point. But as I discovered, the slope was easily 7/8ths of an inch in a 60 inch run (Just so you know- that's A LOT!) And this on an edge that should be relatively FLAT.