Pride Goeth, Goeth, Gone

I think I’m ready to talk about it.

Yeah, I still have flashbacks. Cold sweats at night. Sometimes I think I feel dried mortar on my arms and scramble to find a container of Lava soap before realizing NO! — it’s over. It’s over. My pathetic attempt at tiling the girls’ bathtub surround is over.

I still dream of pulling desperately (with only my fingertips) at mosaic tile sheets held together by a thin, brown layer of paper to protect their glass finish.

Word from the wise: Don’t ever, ever buy mosaic tile sheets covered by a thin layer of paper to protect their glass finish. Go for the kind with mesh on the back.

The Big C tried to warn me. He furrowed his brow when I mentioned mosaics, and was frankly baffled by the paper holding the 12 x 12 sheets together.

“First of all, mosaics are a bitch. Second of all, where’s the mesh?” he asked.

“Oh,” I replied breezily, “it doesn’t have mesh. The paper holds it together, and once you’ve set the tile you just wet it and wipe it off!”

“Then how do you see if it looks OK?” he asked, not unreasonably.

But I, in fact, was unreasonable. I see that now. Alas, I was a cheerful, idiotic fool back then.

“Big C,” I said, tilting my head as if I was talking to a puppy instead of an experienced contractor trying hard not to strangle me. “I think I have a lot of tiling skill hiding deep inside me. I really think I’m a natural. Once I watch you do your thing, and you show me how to do it, I think I’ll surprise you. Maybe even impress you. You’ll see.”

The Big C grunted and I started planning parties that required guests to tromp up two flights of stairs for the sole purpose of witnessing my tiling gifts first-hand.

And so it began.

I took the day off work to attend Bella’s Johnny Appleseed Day in the morning, then tile for the rest of the day with The Big C. And it started off so well.

We determined that The Big C would tile the ceiling while I watched. He wasn’t happy about my choice to tile the ceiling, I might add. But I think the gorgeous arched tub area he’d created would look stupid with just a tub/shower insert, and I worried that the arch would trap steam and make it a haven for mold or crackle the paint. So I insisted.

The Big C, it must be noted, swears a great deal while tiling.

*&$%#@ &^$@$%!!!!!!!

While The Big C went to town on that ceiling, I helpfully pointed out areas in which he could improve. Since the tile didn’t accommodate normal plastic spacers, it all had to be done by eye. I naturally figured two sets of eyes were better than one, and I applaud him for not drop-kicking me out the window.

For awhile, based solely on my deep conviction that I could tile like a pro with no experience and minimal training, I discussed aloud the possibilities of the two of us launching our own contracting business. As The Big C sweated and swore, I even thought of a name: The Grump and Girl. I suggested this cheerfully as he strained to pull another wretched mosaic sheet even with the rest.

Luckily he was drowning in mortar falling from the ceiling and therefore couldn’t grout my mouth shut.

He achieved perfection despite being terminally annoyed. By me.

After he’d finished the ceiling, The Big C showed me how to mix mortar with a frightening tool that resembles a spinning jackhammer. Then he showed me how to use the wet saw. Then he watched me apply the first row of tile and said he had to be somewhere.

I was alone. With mortar and piles of tile.

I remained cheerful for far longer than I should have.

The first bucket of mortar I mixed up didn’t result in the sticky, smooth, peanut butter consistency I’d been shooting for, but I told myself lumps didn’t matter.

The first solo cut on the wet saw shattered the last tile into a vicious mass of shards, but I told myself that grout covers a multitude of sins.

The second row of tiles (laid after The Big C abandoned me left) were grossly uneven, and I started to panic.

Forgive me for not taking more photos; I was covered in mortar. I was sweating and swearing. I was wishing I was anywhere but there. I was ruing the day I’d ever found that horrible website selling that horrible tile.

I finally quit when the rows were so uneven they looked like a jagged mural of the Swiss Alps. And I left The Big C a note apologizing profusely for my arrogance and begging him — BEGGING HIM — to fix the mess I’d made.

Observe my utter failure:

Those gaping holes will someday house shampoo bottles. After The Big C fixes them.

See how certain tiles popped out once the paper was removed? That's not stellar craftsmanship, people.

There is a bright side to that ill-fated day. Bella had a great time at Johnny Appleseed Day, and we even made the newspaper.

I'll stick to apple art from now on.

Still, I left my pride in that bathtub. I thought a million hours watching muscled, grinning television hosts tile bathrooms in 30 seconds prepared me to do it myself. I assumed that The Big C could dash off a few instructions and I’d be just fine.

I now know that The Grump and The Girl will never come to fruition. And to be honest, I’m kind of glad. Because I really hate tiling.