…before you read this post, I’d like you to read this one. You’ll be casting yourselves almost exactly eight years into the past. You will note that the post involves renovating a bathroom. I don’t know if there are any of you still reading this blog who were here way back then, when we decided to renovate the hallway bathroom and to do it ourselves. All of the recent Terrible Decisions posts have been regarding the master bathroom, and of course we have hired other people to do all of the work.
You will note that that post involves installing the ceiling fan, and that I mention bringing my general contractor father-in-law in to do the job because I was convinced that at some point during the process I would put my foot in the wrong place and either break myself or bust a hole in the ceiling.
At some point after finishing that installation– you can see it there, and it looks nice and clean, and I have other pictures from around then that show the outer cover of the fan put in place, too– my father-in-law, who I love dearly, put his fucking foot in the wrong place and busted a hole in the ceiling.
Amazingly, I never appear to have posted about it, possibly out of a desire to not be seen as making fun of somebody who was genuinely trying to help us out. Even more amazingly, I don’t have a picture of the busted-ass broke-ass held-in-place-by-cement-board-tape bullshit that has been sitting next to my ceiling fan for eight fucking years and, ultimately, halted all work on the Goddamned bathroom because we weren’t sure what to do with it between the metal joists in the ceiling, the plaster getting in the way of a clean repair, a couple of other things, and the sort of inertia that can set in on home improvement projects where eventually you hit “eh, good enough,” and because you live with it you learn to ignore the fucking ridiculousness.
(I really don’t want to be writing this post, if I’m being honest, because I’m so ashamed of this nonsense. I am genuinely hoping that I can say “you know how it is,” and that many of you will, in fact, Know how It Is.)
I swear to you that at the beginning of every single break from school and honestly at least a third of the weekends since late December of 2013, I have looked at that fucking hole and sworn to myself that this time, this time, this would be the weekend or the break where I finally fixed that motherfucking hole.
And … well, let’s say it’s half done:
The actual hole was in the place where all the plaster is broken, and it was still holding in place on the left side where the marker is and just sort of out of place out toward the back where it’s obviously been cut. I thought I had a picture of the actual mess itself (my wife probably does but she’s not home) but somehow, again, I never took one. And after eight years of waiting and no more than an hour of actual work:
It’s not perfect but it’s a shitton better, and once there’s tape and mud on it it’ll be fine. I’m not taping and mudding today. I probably should push through and get it done but it’s already 5:00 somehow and I have shit to do tonight. I have the mud already, though, so I can get it done this week.
Frankly if I get it done before 2030 at this point I think I can say I was on the ball.
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