Our new bathroom

This posting is a little late, but the construction of our bathroom was so traumatizing I just couldn't post about it for awhile! Actually, that sounds a lot like the very belated wedding posts that I promised about a year ago... can't believe it's already been a year! Ummmm, soon... I'm still recovering from that! :)

Anyway, so when we first moved into this apartment, the bathroom was in "ok" shape- probably last renovated in the 1990s. Besides the mismatched tiles and the missing tile/hole in the shower, it was just beyond the acceptable level of normal wear and tear...

September 2008

In our excitement of buying the place, we never noticed that the bathroom didn't have an electrical outlet! Then we noticed on windy days, we'd get a breeze down the vent shaft and air would blow down into our bathroom from the passive wall vent. (Sometimes the wind also blew in the smell of our neighbors' cooking.) Soon thereafter, we noticed a hairline crack in the basin of the pedestal sink.... and then the wobbly tile floors... and then the beadboard wainscoating started to break apart... and this past spring, the decision to renovate was cemented when our toilet tank developed a crack and started leaking!! The plumber temporarily epoxied it, but warned us that it wouldn't stick around for much longer. Plus, it was a HUGE water waster since it was an old fashioned toilet, using about 3 gallons per flush! (All toilets nowadays are maximum 1.6 gpf)

Using vintage hotel bathrooms, Waterworks, and the beautiful bathrooms at the bed and breakfast we stayed at in CA earlier this year as our inspirations, we set off to redesign our bathroom. Since our building is over 100 years old, we decided to stick with a classic, historic design, but we wanted it to still be a little modern and fresh, as well as water efficient.

At first we were going to go with a dual-flush toilet, but in the end we were really pleased with the classic look of the 1.28 gpf Toto EcoPromenade (and its fancy high tech flushing mechanism)! Finding a small, good looking pedestal sink narrower than 20" was a huge challenge since we didn't want to relocate the plumbing fixtures (nor did we have the room). Since there were no cracks in the tub, we decided to just reglaze it instead of getting rid of it. We had been completely sold on this gorgeous creamy hand molded tile but our hopes were dashed when we found out the finished bullnose tiles were unavailable and they were discontinuing the line altogether. So we ended up with a similar looking tile by American Olean that was machine made, much cheaper, but also much less interesting. We punched up the design factor by using several different tile sizes and intentionally using a cream and white palette rather than white on white. It was a roller coaster of a ride to deal and coordinate with ordering all the different components- backstock, availability, shipping deliveries, returns, delays, etc...

P and I went away to Massachusetts for an extended weekend over the 4th of July, and figured that Bari could complete the demo, plumbing rough-in, and even some of the tile work in our absence. We assumed it would take a few hours to remove the existing fixtures (toilet, sink, lights), chip off the tile, and take down the sheetrock walls and ceiling. After all, it is only a 39 SF room. How long could it possibly take?!?

 Late June

A little backstory... (disclaimer- this is our version)
Our apartment is on the fourth floor of a five story walkup brownstone. Apparently a few decades ago when our upstairs neighbor's apartment was renovated, the contractors decided that it was easier to just throw all their excess construction debris (plaster, old tiles, pipes, wood, etc.) into the plumbing chase and into the space between our ceiling joists rather than dragging it down five flights and then having to pay for hauling it away! After stuffing everything into our ceiling, they just installed their floor finish on their side, and everyone must have forgotten about it as people moved away....

Jump back to 2010... Bari cuts a hole in the ceiling to start removing the sheetrock, and it practically collapses on him! Shockingly, he was not hurt, albeit covered in dust. Horrified, he had to work at cutting the ceiling away in small sections, with a giant garbage bag below him to capture the debris that rained down on him each time. When the medicine cabinet was removed, we found hundreds of rusty used razor blades from (a) previous tenant(s) who had discarded them through the little openings in the back of the cabinet!

All the debris in the ceiling is gone in this photo, but much of it is still behind the plumbing chase wall. Some of the studs are not even sitting on top of anything!

Then we found out the tile delivery was going to be delayed by a whole week due to the 4th of July holiday. Needless to say, we got back from MA with a lot less done than we expected. Bari was great though- without his patience and resourcefulness, we wouldn't be where we are now! We ended up subletting a nearby apartment through Craigslist for a few days, then extending our stay to a week. But, we were forced to move back in prematurely when the sublet ran out. For a good laugh, reread the NY Times article Two Weeks Without A Toilet.

Bari was kind enough to accommodate us and move the toilet into the bathroom and hook it up every night when we got home and moved it out again each morning after we left for work. Paul was showering at his gym and I was taking cold showers at my work during off hours. At least most of July was in the 90s, so the cold showers were actually pretty refreshing! We brushed our teeth at the kitchen sink and sponged off in the middle of the kitchen on the muggiest nights. It was too hot and dirty to cook in our apartment, so we ate almost every single meal out as well. I had daily morning meetings with Bari, and sometimes had to leave work to meet him two or three times during the day to make quick decisions. His keen eye, honesty, and reliability really kept me in check. Since I do this for a living, I had planned and drawn everything out down to the last inch, but as construction goes, there were unforeseen circumstances and I had to be flexible. My moods yo-yo'ed from extreme frustration to exhilaration as we exchanged countless texts, emails, photos, and updates.

All of our furniture in the living room was either moved to the bedroom or pushed to the perimeter of the room and completely covered in plastic for a month while the center of the room became Bari's staging/ storage/ work area. There were tools, table saws, tile saws, doors, sheetrock, stacks of lumber, plumbing fixtures, and boxes of tiles everywhere! All of our plants were crowded into the kitchen nook and we had to crawl through a plastic sheet every night to get into the bedroom, where we were tripping over boxes of bathroom supplies and furniture. Not to mention that it was hot (it hit or surpassed 90 degrees almost every day of July!)...

Anway, back to the construction...

Setting the border tile on top of our new level floor

The new copper plumbing piping

Bari had to reframe the back wall since it was in such bad condition. In our previous bathroom, some of the newer pipes actually ran across the front of the wall, and were just "plastered" over, so that back wall was completely wavy and uneven! This wall isn't going anywhere.

The sheetrock is up, and the walls and ceiling are completely level. 

Look, an electrical outlet!

Bari's favorite part- putting up the wall tiles

Bari's gorgeous tilework... We loved all the clean white marble and diagonal floor tile pattern from the SLO bathroom, so we decided to mix it up by doing a herringbone pattern with a simple border.

The plumbers installing the fixtures!

 The newly reglazed tub

The tub and built-in cabinet/hamper were really about the only things that we kept. Bari took the doors off the cabinet and is going to redo them so they don't look like cheap Formica cabinets.

The new but vintage-looking Schoolhouse ceiling light and sconce, and the quietest, most powerful wall fan ever

 The beautiful Rohl faucet and Vitra sink. The town where the faucet is made was once famous for making church bells, so the base of the faucet handle pays homage to its history.

The shiny new doorknob

The shiny new towel bar

The shiny new robe hook beyond 

The view from the orange foyer/hallway

As most construction goes- it took about double the time and double the budget... Despite the frustrating moments, it was well worth it. We now have a luxurious bathroom that we love spending time in! With a few recommendations from friends and helpful industry contacts, Bari's blood and sweat, and (some of our) tears...  

Voila! Our new bathroom!

August 2010

Contractor: Bari DeJaynes 
Plumbers: Martin Plumbing
Electrician: Romanello Electric

Plumbing fixtures: Toto EcoPromenade, Kohler Bancroft, Rohl Cisal faucet (Simon's Hardware, NYC)

Plumbing fixtures: Vitra Epoca sink (Signature Hardware)

Wall tiles: American Olean, biscuit (Bella Tile, NYC)

Floor tiles: Calacatta Gold marble (Swan Tile and Cabinets, NYC)

Ceiling light: Otis (Schoolhouse Electric)

Towel bar, shelf, sconce: Restoration Hardware

Toilet paper holder: Home Depot 

Medicine cabinet: Nutone

Fan: Panasonic
Hook: Anthropologie

Doorknob: Baldwin
Paint: Benjamin Moore

Bathroom Renovation

It's been awhile since I've updated the blog since my laptop has been under plastic for the last several weeks! We are undergoing a bathroom renovation- which in itself is stressful already, but when you live in a small apartment with only one bathroom, it becomes a frustrating, traumatic, life changing experience, uprooting your daily routine and forcing you to adapt to the constantly shifting conditions.

Until I download my photos and blog about the before/during/after photos, read this hilarious article (full text below) by Joyce Wadler of the New York Times about a Manhattanite who is also renovating her bathroom- many of the trials and tribulations she faces are similar to what P and I have been dealing with.

Two Weeks Without a Toilet

Published July 14, 2010

By Joyce Wadler

Tony Cenicola/The New York Times

THIS is my new tub, a Rubbermaid Roughneck XL plastic bin. What do you think — is the lime green too much? 

I picked it out in the storage section at Home Depot, kicking off my sandals and stepping in, doing a nice straight-back knee bend partway down to see if I would fit. At 18 by 32 inches, with a depth of 20 inches, it was perfect. But five days into my bathroom renovation, it was not so great. 

Sick of the Y.M.C.A. showers, I decided to try using the bin as a true bathtub, rather than as the place where I would stand and drip after lathering up at the kitchen sink. I folded my limbs in, feeling like an insect with extra joints. (On the fifth day of her renovation, the reporter awoke to find she had turned into a giant cockroach.) 

Seated, it was a very tight fit, leaving me three inches to move my hands, but lots of space to free-associate. My first association was flying tourist class to Shanghai. Then I thought about the stowaways who cram themselves into shipping boxes on freight containers. Then, realizing just how tough it would be to get out, I wondered if I would die there and what the headline might be. 

Reporter Drowns in Makeshift Tub; Home Renovations in New York on Upswing

 

Bathroom renovation is not easy in Manhattan. In the rest of the country, most people have bathrooms in multiples: master baths, children’s bath, powder rooms. In a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, you are lucky if you can find the space in your only bathroom for extra toilet paper. Renovating, you have a few choices: move out, use the neighbors’ bathroom or improvise. 

Having the work done while I was away, which was my plan, finally didn’t seem to be a great idea: questions come up often during a renovation. Moving in with friends would be inconvenient, and hotels are expensive. Using a neighbor’s bathroom, which a lot of people suggested, was a terrible idea. Even if anyone was crazy enough to agree, it would mean that one day I would have to do the same for them, and who wants someone popping into their apartment several times an evening and in the middle of the night? 

So improvisation it would be, and I had a plan. Use the Y.M.C.A. a block and a half away for showering. Buy a big plastic tub for an at-home lather-and-rinse bath. Brush my teeth at the kitchen sink. 

Of course, the most urgent question — the one friends seized on constantly — was what I would do for a toilet. There were two camps, the ones who knew exactly what I was going to do — or as I came to think of them, the ones who had read Henry Miller in high school — and the ones who pretended they had no idea. The first camp, I am proud to say, was in the majority. 

“O.K., the sink, I get it,” a science reporter said. “But what about — — ” 

The doormen have a toilet, I told him. Somewhere. 

I reminded the squeamish that I don’t cook. If a cup or two is poured carefully down the drain with the occasional Clorox chaser, so what? It’s not like I’m rinsing vegetables in the sink. 

The night before demolition, I set up my bathroom in exile. I moved cosmetics and soaps and shampoos into the kitchen. I propped a hand mirror between the handles of a kitchen cabinet, which turned out to be exactly the right height for a makeup mirror. I put the Rubbermaid Roughneck tub near the sink, and stacked bath towels on a counter. The oven door handle of the snazzy Italian stove I put in during a kitchen renovation a few months earlier made a perfect rack for hand towels. I thought I could hear the stove sniffling, it was so grateful to be finally getting some attention, poor thing. 

My contractor estimated that he could put in the bathroom in less than three weeks, connecting the toilet by the end of week two. This schedule was immediately knocked off course when the service elevator was shut down on Monday, meaning everything would be a day late, and I would be without a toilet for two weekends, not one. But my neighborhood is full of restaurants with bathrooms, and I had a plan; what did I care? 

Demolition began on a Tuesday. I had dinner out and came home late to a bathroom stripped down to concrete and pipes, and a living room covered in dust. Annoying, but I had gone through it with the kitchen renovation and lived. I hate people who whine about renovations. 

I went to the kitchen to rinse out a pair of white jeans for the next day and turned on the faucet: nothing, no water. 

The plumber, shutting off the water in the bathroom, had cut off the water to the entire apartment. I panicked. I can live without a bathroom, but with no water at all, my apartment was unlivable. There are five exposed valves in the bathroom, but I had no idea which one would turn the water back on and which one would erupt in my face, blowing my eye out. I called the contractor. He apologized profusely, told me which handle to turn, and after a few wrenching tries I was able to turn the water back on, though I had a feeling I had dislocated my shoulder. 

But I am independent woman, strong like bull, proud, and the plan was back on track. I washed the jeans in a little detergent, then pulled the plug. Then I heard the sound of water running in the bathroom — which was not, under the circumstances, where I wanted to hear it. I raced over. 

Soapy water was dripping from an open pipe, the water forming a fat, muddy puddle on the floor. I threw towels onto the floor to mop it up and made a panicked run down to the basement to find the super, realizing as I did so that I was in desperate need of a bathroom. I stopped a passing doorman. 

“There wouldn’t be a bathroom somewhere down here, would there?” I asked. 

He led me to one in a corner of the basement I had never noticed, though I have been in the building 22 years. The secret bathroom — salvation! 

Then I found the super, who, after giving me the “that’s what you get for hiring an outside contractor instead of me and my extended family” look, said he would see what he could do. He came up to my bathroom, screwed on a U-shaped pipe to prevent overflow and gave me a crash course in plumbing. I gave him two $20s. 

OPERATION Live Without a Toilet for Two Weeks, It Won’t Kill You was back on track. Wimps who leave their apartments just because they have no bathroom? I sneer at them. 

I showered at the Y in the morning, and used the bathrooms at work and at neighborhood restaurants, although the question of whether to have an after-dinner drink was now fraught. At night, instead of my evening bath, I had a standing wash in my Rubbermaid Roughneck. (An interesting couple, those two, when you think about it: Does the maid find roughnecks irresistible? Is it roughnecks who wash like this? What about roustabouts? I understand why the Roughneck likes the Rubbermaid — she is so pliant, it must be like dating a ballerina. But does she ever become fed up with bathing in a bin and demand to be taken to a hotel?) 

The standing wash is something between a shower and a splash. I scrubbed and rinsed in the sink from my waist up, then lathered up from the waist down, rinsing with a beat-up pewter pitcher I got at a flea market 30 years ago. It was surprising to me how little water it took to get clean this way. 

Still, after three days, when I had an out-of-town article to report that enabled me to stay in a hotel, I was delighted. The facilities on Amtrak are magnificent — they have flush toilets. When I checked into the hotel, the first thing I did was take a bath. Also exquisite. 

The woman I was doing the article about had a beautiful house, and after I used her bathroom I was so overwhelmed, I returned, blathering. 

“I’ve been renovating my bathroom and living without a toilet,” I told her. “I feel like I’ve been to a Mecca or something.” 

“That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard,” she said. 

Returning to my apartment, now Steinbeckian in its buildup of dust, was not easy. The showers at the Y do not have doors, just billowing curtains that allow the water to come streaming out, and as the showers are opposite one another, it’s like going out naked during hurricane season. 

I decided to try to take a real bath in my bin. I poured some Bigelow’s Bay Rum bath oil, a good strong scent, into the Merry Maid Roustabout; angled it to fit under the kitchen faucet, and started filling it. This took a while. The stream from a kitchen faucet is smaller than a bathtub’s. Also, water is heavy. I got five inches of water into the tub, then managed to angle it out from under the faucet and set it onto the floor without spilling it. 

I felt a strain in my right shoulder, but I stepped in and sat down. The warm, scented water was lovely but not what I would call relaxing. My arms were crisscrossed at the elbow. I couldn’t move much. It evoked some movie memories, but those tubs were bigger and the bathers — French aristocrats or gunslingers in hotels of questionable repute — had people bringing them hot water. 

Lifting the tub to empty it in the sink was much tougher than lowering it to the floor. I thought I could hear the tendons in my shoulder snap and found myself wishing I’d gotten closer to the neighbors. 

I was also starting to wonder about the legality of pouring urine down the sink in New York City. It seems no worse than a lot of the things from the back of my refrigerator that I have poured down the drain, but getting into trouble over it would be an inglorious end to my career. 

I tried to research the subject on the Web, but all I found was a video on public restrooms in my neighborhood. There seemed to be a nice one at Whole Foods. Good to know. Meanwhile, the weather was getting hotter, my apartment was getting dustier, my shoulder was getting worse. 

Ten days into the renovation, I went to see my friend Loren Fishman, a doctor who specializes in rehabilitative medicine, who examined my shoulder, looked concerned and sent me for an M.R.I. 

A few days later, I got the diagnosis: frozen shoulder, most likely brought on by muscle strain. If I am lucky, after a course of physical therapy, it will go away in a few months. 

Next time, I’m going to a hotel.