I sort of hate bad linoleum. A lot. That, combined with the fact that the closet flange was leaking and rotting the sub floor around my toilet, was enough to cause an (admittedly ill-timed) emergency overhaul of the downstairs bathroom, the last bastion of 70's tacky in our otherwise pretty ok little ypsibungalow. Feeling the crunch of the approaching school year, I usually turn a critical eye on my summer self and embark on a mid-August quick-have-to-do-something-to-feel-poductive-about project that takes over our lives for a few days and nights and leaves me dusty and swearing and covered in adhesive compound; and J shaking his head and escaping to the Corner or his office at the first opportunity.
This brings me to my point. Kind of. In the process of attacking my bathroom, I removed the castiron tub, the sink, and the toilet; tore out aformentioned nasty linoleum; replced some subfloor; put down underlayment and new ceramic tile; replaced my closet flange (shit tube); installed a new sink and resized the door. And, though I do say so myself, it looks good.
J, my husband, is a great guy. The best. Compassionate, insightful, musical genius, generous to a fault, thoughtful, supportive, etc... But I swear to God as long as we've been together I can not remember once, NOT ONCE, seeing him pick up a hammer, except maybe to move it off a pile of books I left it lying on. I, on the other hand, while perhaps not so highly evolved, am pretty damn handy. So why does my Dad - for example - a self proclaimed "woodbutcher" who taught me most of what I know about fixing (and wrecking) just about anything, insist on suggesting that J get the powertools for Christmas? Why does my two year old call it "papa's hammer?" Most importantly: Why do I care?
Ever since I was a kid on a co-op farm being told to get off the roof and into the garden, I have had this burning need to assert that I can do whatever the hell I want. (And WELL, gdmmit!) As a teenager I saw it as a quest for gender equality, but as I get older I wonder.
I am deeply satisfied as a wife, mother, musician, teacher (all things I didn't like -or didn't get- as a kid ) and so honored to assist women at birth (not much is more female that that, folks!) So why is it that when I'm feeling frustrated or inadequate I jump into something like plumbing to get me out of my funk? Could be just the sense of accomplishment that comes from completeing a finite task (something I don't get a lot of these days). Could be subtle gender-role rebellion. Could be Martha-style "pride in my home" :-) Could be seeking approval from my Dad/men. Could be my unrefined response to the creative impulse. Maybe addiction to adhesive compound.
Maybe I am trying, through amatuer plumbing and masonry, to assert that the balance of yin and yang (or whatever the hell you want to call it) that makes us who we are, is a fluid continuum. Maybe I am trying to remind myself and the people in my life to look at each other without the usual expectations/ projections, but as ever-changing miraculous interconnections of desire, hope, experience and determination. Reminding myself to allow for free improv (J's favorite) and open-endedness in my definition of myself and my understanding of the world.
Maybe I just sort of hate bad linoleum.
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