But Will I End Up a Bag Lady?

 

See this? 

 

 

The toilet front and center

 

 

This is the doorway to the biggest bathroom in our house, the only bathroom when the place was built in 1924.  You come up the stairs, turn right, and this is what you see.  And it's Jerry's bathroom--need I say more?  The lid is always up. 

 

This has bugged me for 30 years.

Now, note the 90-year old bathroom floor:

 Discolored and chipped

And the 1960's era Formica countertop, also chipped:



We put up the wallpaper in the 1980's.

Ancient and murky shower door

How many people think this bathroom should be remodeled? 

If no, would it change your mind to know that the shower has twice leaked into a kitchen cupboard below?

If yes, would you change your vote to hear that the estimate for a remodel is higher than the cost of the first house Jerry and I bought, in 1976?

Also if no, would you go for it knowing that we will not have radiant heated floors, a spa bathtub, heated towel racks, or any of that other stuff you see in high-end bathrooms?

We're keeping the tub

And, most important,  that the toilet will be nearly hidden behind a ponywall (half-wall at far end of vanity)?

When the contractor handed me the estimate on Tuesday,  I quickly skimmed the first page.  Near the bottom was a "Subtotal," line and a figure that was about what I expected. 

"Yay! " I thought.  "This is do-able."

Then I turned the page, and the number doubled. Plus,  there was a list of things that weren't included in the price, such as plumbing fixtures, dimmers, tile, painting, light fixtures, and moving the heat register.

I glanced over at my sister, who's designing this new palace-of-a-bathroom.  She seemed calm and not in a way that suggested she was masking panic. 

I went out and bought a bottle of Prosecco.  Jerry came home, and we drank all the Prosecco, and I laid on him the total cost of the remodel (which includes some re-working on a hall closet so that drawers of fabric will no longer tilt and nearly fall on my feet when I open them).

"Scary," he said.

"We'll be in the poorhouse," I said.

"There'll be less for you when I'm gone," he commented.

Cheery.

The next morning, I felt rocky, but I spent some time on the phone with a guy at the bank to see about a home equity line of credit.  Then I reviewed our investments and cash-flow situation. 

Since then I've gone through the several phases of Accepting the Reality of a Remodel Estimate:

1. Shock
2. Serious questioning over whether this really needs to be done. 
3. Panic over depletion of finances, including seeing self as bag lady in later years.
4. Liberal guilt--this is a gold-plated problem-why-not-give-the-money-to-the-poor.
5. Resignation that we're going to do it.
6. In-depth look at personal finances and planning.

I made it through Stage 6  yesterday and hit Jerry with financial information when he got home from a butterfly count.  I started in.

Yes, the number was scary, he agreed.  No, we won't go to the poorhouse.  The he dozed off.

I guess we're going to do it.