Alan's New Throne

Some people are enamored with 'Mid-Century' design and architecture. For those of you who have never heard of this nomenclature, Mid-Century refers to the ranch houses, and split level homes of the nineteen fifties, and sixties, and all the crap that your parents put in those homes. Having grown up with it, I find it hideous. I specifically remember a sofa set, referred to as a 'sectional', that my mom had. It was gray with a zigzag pattern, and when our fat neighbor from three doors down would visit, I would sit there fascinated as she slowly sank, almost to the floor, in it's mushy cushions.

Mid-Century is one of the reasons I hate Florida architecture. Fifty percent of Florida was built in the fifties and sixties, and my house was built smack dab in the middle of that era. It features all the 'modern' amenities that everyone clamored for back then, including a pink and gray bathroom. The bathroom is such a sickly Pepto-Bismol pink, I often sit on the can with the lights dimmed so I don't have to see it. Sure it's hard to read magazines in that light, but it does give it more of a romantic feel. One thing I did to try and help the situation was upgrade the sink to a seventies era vanity about eighteen years ago, but that only added to the ugliness of the room. So this past week I ripped out the old ceramic floor tile, the toilet, and that ugly vanity, and replaced it with some nifty new stuff from Home Depot. Stuff that people will laugh at in fifty years.

One thing that will make you feel old, and feeble, are do it yourself, home projects. Back when I was in my twenties I used to tear out walls and rebuild whole rooms. Re-doing a floor was no problem, and lugging heavy construction products up into the house was a cinch. This past week I found out what my new limits are as I coast into my sixties. Tearing up the tile floor? No problem since I laid it down seventeen years ago with the wrong kind of glue. Ripping out the toilet was easy, probably because I broke the 'flange' when I yanked on the thing. Getting the vanity out of the house was a little harder, that is until I hit the door sash in the kitchen and the whole thing fell apart. Then I was able to toss it out the back door in little pieces.

It was when I started rebuilding the bathroom that my age showed. After laying the tile I found that my arm was like a noodle from smearing the thinset across the floor, and then laying each section of tile. Smear, lay, smear, lay, and on, and on into the evening. I was sweating like a pig, and in the end I couldn't even get up without rolling over to a door knob to help pull myself up. After the tile, I had to repair the toilet flange, and install the toilet (no leaks, hooray!). Then this morning I installed the vanity and sink (leaked all over the place). I swear I had to get up and down under that sink fifty times before I figured out where the hell the leaks were coming from. My legs were cramping, and each time I tried to stand up I wanted to call in a crane to help hoist my fat ass off the floor. My new bathroom is real nice now, and I have banned Mark from going in there to 'decorate' it. I didn't spend three days crawling around on the floor, and wrestling a fifty year old toilet off it's crud encrusted flange, so that Mark can clutter the place up with fragrant soaps, and stupid towels I can't touch.