In the Zone Part IV: Bedroom Knobs and Broomsticks

It didn’t take long after the mudroom floor issues came to light for us to realize we were dealing with something similar in the master bedroom. An addition that was built along the opposite end and other side of the trailer, the master bedroom has two exterior walls that form a corner and span 22 feet and 18 feet, respectively. In that corner sits a portal to hell, I can only surmise, disguised as a fireplace that likely hasn’t worked properly since Elvis Presley paid a surprise visit to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. (It was December 21^st, 1970, in case you’re hazy on the date. And Richard Nixon was still president.)

Having spent the better part of five months using that room to prime, paint, and repaint a seemingly endless number of doors, baseboards, and other trim, I was more than a little aware of the slope in that floor well before we discovered the reason behind the mudroom slope. I worried about it a lot and wondered often if we should open it up and have a look at the stringers before we put down carpeting, or if we should at least dig down along on the outside of the walls to see what was going on.

The master bedroom and open-concept bathroom prior to demo.

The Jarhead was less familiar with the slope in the master bedroom, having spent the bulk of his time in other parts of the dwelling and performing tasks that didn’t involve brushes and rollers but did require strength, agility and a facility with foul language that I simply hadn’t mastered. But by the time he got around to installing my painstakingly painted doors and trim in that room, even he realized something was off. And since the mudroom issues had come to light by then he, too, was afraid it would be expensive and a major pain in the ass to fix. (I’ve come a long way with my facility with foul language in case you hadn’t noticed.)

The open-concept bathroom was not to our liking, and we needed somewhere to park our dressers and other furniture, so we added walls.

Out of respect for our brave men and women who’ve seen actual combat, I won’t equate what we were experiencing with PTSD, but I will go so far as to say we were more than a little gun shy. Having found materials like broom handles and spare siding serving as stringers in the mudroom, we could barely bring ourselves to contemplate what we might encounter next. In fact, after seeing what was holding up (or NOT holding up) the mudroom floor, I would not have been surprised to find tree limbs, discarded shelving, curtain rods, or a bundle of cardboard holding up portions of the floor in that bedroom.

Once the new inner walls were up, we primed them and the knotty pine outer walls. Because all pine and no paint makes Billie a cranky girl.

I probably should have pressed the issue before the carpet went in when it was more cost-effective to do so. But I was afraid. How many times, after all, had I thought someone was breaking into the house when in fact the sounds I heard were the furnace starting or the washing machine draining between cycles? How many times had I feared I was having a heart attack or when in fact I merely had to burp? And how many times had I mentally convicted Donald Trump of being a gigantic narcissistic ass only to realize he was actually a gigantic narcissistic ass?

Okay. Bad example.

Next we painted the walls a soothing gray and the ceiling trim white to make that knotty pine really pop.

In any case before I could bring it up, I was forced to ask myself: Am I willing to push the Jarhead to open up the floor simply because it felt wonky? Am I willing to ask him to forego other tasks only to find the walls and floors had been built precisely as they should have been? More importantly, how on earth would I manage to live it down if I was wrong? Did I really want to die on that hill? (Pun fully intended.)

Here you can see the full effect of painting the carsiding. Light now is reflected by the walls rather than absorbed by them. And you can clearly see the laundry and the unfinished portal to hell described above.

Having read all that, you can probably imagine, what a double-edged sword it was when the Jarhead admitted that the slope of the bedroom floor was probably evidence that the room lacked footings. And how it felt like a guillotine descending above me when he gravely suggested that there was a better than even chance that the same was true with the exterior walls in the den.

Better? Better?? Don’t say better when what you’re saying is much, much worse!

But, with all the other major projects finished and Covid-19 vaccines offering us the chance to reconnect with family and friends we hadn’t seen in over a year, we decided to leave it alone for a while. It’s not as if the room was caving in—at least not as soon as the awning would have, anyway. Plus, with lumber getting scarce and spendy thanks to the ongoing pandemic, it made sense to hold off, stash some cash, and concentrate on finishing the smaller less expensive projects on our list.

Like installing hardware in the exterior door in that very same master bedroom.

Notice I didn’t say ‘replacing’ or ‘fixing.’ This is because there was nothing to fix or replace. For reasons unknown to me at the time, both the knob and deadbolt on the door that led the back deck (which you can clearly see in the before photos above) had been removed at some point after demo began. Which meant that, by the time I started priming, painting, and installing bathroom flooring, cold air had been streaming in through two holes the size of baseball-sized-hailstones for WHO KNOWS how long. And, because the door was binding at the top left and bottom right corners (mostly likely because it was framed without a proper header and was being pulled out of plumb by the wall without proper footings) I could not even pry it open to, say, escape a fire, if that had been my only way out. Which meant I would have to break a window instead, since none of them would open either.

I noticed the doorknob problem when I started working on my painting projects in early December 2019, and found myself wondering how it could be that there had been three to six men onsite (including the Jarhead) on any given day since the end of October and despite being smart and skilled in the building trades, not one of them had devised a way to cover the holes and stop the cold air from coming in. It took little old Liberal Arts Annie to figure out you could stuff a bunch of rags in those holes and put an end to this bloody Dickensian misery.

Rags or knobs? How will I ever decide???

Between you and me and the bedpost, it was meant to be a temporary solution. But days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and so on. I got so used to seeing those rags, I didn’t even notice when the Jarhead installed an actual knob and deadbolt.

Later, when he asked me how I liked the hardware, I thought he meant the matte black knobs and hinges he had put on the interior doors several weeks before and said with a confused shrug that they were great. But since it wasn’t like him to ask my opinion on projects he’d completed that far in the past (because, honestly, it’s not like him to RECALL projects he’s completed that far in the past) I thought maybe HE was having second thoughts about the black knobs. So I asked how he liked them, and soon we were mired in a version of Who’s on First the likes of which would make Abbot and Costello cringe.

These pictures show the progression of one area of the master bedroom. Note the walls, the lighting, and the barn door to the walk-in closet.

Anyway, at some point as I was cropping a picture I had taken of that area I noticed the new hardware on the door in the background and realized WTF he had been talking about. Of course, it had been so long since we’d bought those knobs that I forgot we even had them, and I was so used to the rags being there that I didn’t even notice when they were finally gone.

Which almost makes me almost want to take back some of the things I was thinking when I shoved those rags into those holes that fall.  

Almost.

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In the Zone Part III: If at First You Don’t Succeed, Don’t Bother

In this segment, we discuss how to install faux wood plank flooring on your less than perfect mudroom floor.

First:

Go to your local home improvement center, choose a product, and arrange for an agent to come out, measure the area in need of flooring, and calculate an estimate. Wait 3 weeks for the measurement appointment, then wait 3 days for the estimate to come back.

On the 4th day (or the fifth, if you’re feeling generous) call and leave a message inquiring about the estimate. Wait 3 more days, then call again and leave another message. Repeat as necessary.

If/when you get your estimate, head to the store to sign your contract and make payment so they can order your cool new retro black and white sheet vinyl tile.

Wait 1-3 weeks for a call telling you when your product will arrive at the store. When you think you’ve waited long enough, call the store to inquire as to the status of your order. Repeat as necessary.

Once you have confirmed when your product will arrive at the store, schedule your delivery date, and then contact the installation company to set up your installation. Listen with annoyance as they tell you they will not schedule your installation until the product is actually on site, then grumble privately about the draconian policies of the company in question as you hang up the phone.

Briefly weigh the merits of calling back later to say the product is on site against the odds of being caught lying. Then ask yourself, How much do I value my reputation? What happens if the product doesn’t show up before the installers do? How easy will it be to find someone to install it if they get mad and decide they don’t want the job?

The day before your product is to be delivered, receive a call from the home improvement center confirming your delivery window for the next day. Plan to be on site 2 hours before and 2 hours after your 4-hour delivery window. Also, if it works best for your schedule for them to arrive at the early end of your window, plan for them to arrive near the end of your window, and vice versa. That way you won’t be disappointed.

On the day of delivery, avoid coffee, water, and all other liquids (including sunscreen) to reduce the likelihood of being in the bathroom when the delivery truck arrives. Should you feel the need to use the bathroom, weigh the odds of having to cough or sneeze with a full bladder against the repercussions of missing your delivery and waiting another 3 to 14 days for a new delivery date.

Two hours after your delivery window has closed, visit the restroom (if you dare) then call the store for an update on your delivery. Discover to your chagrin, that the product never arrived at the store, and that Lance thought Chad called to tell you they weren’t coming, and Chad thought Lance called to tell you they weren’t coming, and Chad told Christine that Lance told you they weren’t coming, which is why Christine didn’t call you herself.

Reconsider your stance on the draconian nature of the installer’s scheduling policy as you wait on hold to schedule another delivery appointment. Schedule the new delivery appointment for 3 days after the product is allegedly set to arrive at the store. Repeat as necessary.

Then:

When the product is delivered, contact the installer to schedule installation.

Wait 3 weeks for the installation date, then greet the installers, lead them to the mudroom, then go to another area of the house to work on another project while the installers unwrap the cool new black and white sheet vinyl tile and prepare the floor for installation.

Hearing something close to your last name being called, walk back down the hall to the mudroom where the two installers stand looking baffled and somewhat annoyed. Learn that the store didn’t order enough product for your project because of the distance between where the pattern begins and then begins again is longer than usual.

Reconsider the wisdom of trusting your project to a store that doesn’t seem to have its shit together. Take a deep breath and contact the store to order more product.

Wait 3 days for your additional product to come in, followed by 3 more days for an installer to be available. Repeat as necessary.

Arrive at the worksite to discover that the installers who started your project aren’t available, and that that the guy who came in their place looks 80 years old, can barely bend his knees, and coughs like he has Covid-19, which is a strong possibility since it is June of 2020 and what else could it be?

Resolve to work outside that day, even though its 89 thousand degrees in the shade, to avoid contracting Covid-19. Wait three hours, put on a mask, and go back in the house for a bottle of water, and check on the installer’s progress. Try not to look alarmed or disgusted when you find the installer sitting on the floor talking to a representative from the sheet vinyl manufacturer on his cell phone because he can’t figure out where the tile pattern begins and ends, and thus can’t figure out how or where to cut the tile.

Decide that life is too short to put up with this crap, then fire the installer and call the store to cancel your contract and ask for a refund. Laugh maniacally when informed by a flooring rep that they can cancel the contract and refund your installation fees over the phone, but you’ll have to return the tile to the store yourself to get a refund for the material.

While at the store to return the sheet vinyl, choose a faux wood interlocking plank product. Decide that, while it looks more like pictures of wood planks than actual wood planks, it will make a dandy covering for your funhouse floor. Best of all, you can take it home today. In your very own vehicle. And you can stop to use the restroom any time you please.

Finally:

Arrange for a handsome retired marine to install the faux wood plank floor. It may take him a while to get the hang of it, and you may have to feed him cake and listen to a lot of swearing. But at least he’ll get the job done without giving you Covid-19.