DIANE MAKAR MURPHY Nesting, tools and determination make for dangerous combo

Well, I did it again. Everyone went out of town, and I started nesting.
Nesting is a phenomenon pregnant women experience. It is a hormonal fervor to prepare your home for the new arrival.
But for some odd reason, at 47, with no babies on the way, I am deep in the throws of hormonal nesting. I know it's hormonal because I don't really want to be doing it. I would rather be reading books, seeing movies and walking the dog. Instead, I'm visiting Pier 1, calling roofers and hanging pictures.
Obviously, as long as I keep a reasonable awareness of our finances, it's not a problem. Unless, that is, one walks into the bathroom and decides the ratty, rusted blue sink we inherited needs to be fixed.
Initially, I patched the rusty crack with white porcelain chip repair and prepared to paint the whole sink white. Very reasonable. But first, the faucet needed to be removed. No slacker when it comes to watching my husband work, I knew just what to do. I looked for a shut-off valve beneath the sinks (there are two), and not finding one, went downstairs. With the turn of a knob, I made the bath, toilet and sinks useless.
Resources
Next, I went to the garage and got a work light so hot it could have fried my brain (oh wait, I think it did, as you will see). Then, because there is no toolbox except for an enormous rolling one, I took myriad tools from the garage to the bath a handful at a time as I needed them, about 30 trips, I'd say.
First, it was an adjustable wrench that couldn't grab the encrusted nut at the fixture base. Then it was a 3/4-inch wrench which was too small. Then a 1-inch wrench -- too big. Even with the right wrench, the faucet nuts were stuck. Eventually, on the carpet outside the bath, I had the contents of John's entire rolling toolbox, plus a jigsaw, a hammer, a rubber mallet, a cow and a pig (two of those are a lie).
An hour later ... With WD-40 dripping into my hair, I'm drenched in sweat, despite the fact that I turn off the work light every time I leave the room to avoid a flash fire. I have only loosened the Big Pipe Thing that comes from the drain and the Hanging Down Water Tubes (technical terms). The faucet, however, is going nowhere.
But, as I'm lying beneath the sink, my head crammed into the cupboard where we usually keep the Epsom salts and dirty sponges, and I notice little hooks with flat head screws. Hmmm, that's doable. I remove these with my lips pursed over my teeth. If the sink falls onto my head, I think, I'm not losing my teeth.
High ambitions
At 8 that night, I tear out the last little piece of vanity top and throw it on the floor, next to the torn laminate, removed wall tiles, rusty sink, wall toothbrush holders and plaster chips. I am sweat-drenched, filthy, covered in oil and plaster dust with no usable shower, but I am strangely elated. The rusty nail gouge in my leg and bloody knuckles are distant memories as I scream at the top of my lungs, & quot;Yeehah!! You have not defeated me, you sink!!! & quot;
And then, panic sets in. I have no water, no sink, no counter, a special-order size, and less than 24 hours. A memory pops into my head.
About six year ago, while John was at work, I stood in the living room of our old house and wondered what was under the carpeting. I went to the corner and pried up a little section of the carpet, barely a 5-inch equilateral triangle. That's when I grabbed that little triangular corner of carpet and started backing up.
Suddenly, I was shifting furniture and pulling and grunting and sweating. About halfway through my living room debacle, I stopped, looked around me and panicked. In less than two hours, John would be home.
It's amazing what one can do with a crowbar, pliers, sweat, fear and shame.
As of this writing, I have six hours to create a bathroom where there is none. I'll let you know what happens.
murphy@vindy.com