Monday night fight

Give me lavender or give me death.

A 1947 bathroom, askew. What to save, what to fix, who’s to blame?

THE ENSUITE BATHROOM—I loathe that real-estate lingo—in the three-room suite we “let” for short-term lodging became a war zone on Sunday, when I walked in to put some towels away and suddenly noticed that every inch of the 78-year-old privy was shabby. Not shabby chic, just plain, pathetic old-folks-who-can’t-see-the-faucets-for-the-fleas shabby.

I’m an adult. “This place is a dump!” I screamed. “We’re ruined! We have to gut everything and start over! ”

John came in from another part of our shared universe, followed by Louie, our dog. They looked puzzled.

“Look at this! It’s a disaster! Nothing matches! The colors are terrible. That wallpaper is thirty years old. Thirty-two. I can’t live like this. I’m done.”

“Maybe if we painted?”

“I can’t paint! I have neuropathy. I’ll fall off the ladder. And I’m too short.” Utter loathing for my body overcame me like a toxic fog. I hated myself more than I hated the bathroom. Or John and Louie.

“See if we have any of those colors left,” John said, and he and Louie wandered off to watch a YouTube video of some guy building a bike stand with driftwood.

I found near-full gallons of both a gentle lavender, Lovely Linda, and a dark purple Eggplant. Lovely Linda needs to be everywhere, I decided. It will cover what were once red walls (the actual name of the paint color is Readhead—that’s not a typo, that’s a constant irritant whenever it’s hauled out for touchups)—and the Eggplant moldings.

“The Eggplant doesn’t have to be repainted,” John said, “it looks a lot better on the moldings than Lovely Linda.”

What!? He’s watched one season of Love It or List It and he’s a pro?

“There are five colors in the wallpaper,” I said, with emotional lava pouring into every syllable. This is a woman’s perquisite. You can’t pay me less and talk over me in meetings and deny me the right to make decisions about my own body, and then tell me what color the moldings in the bathroom are going to be.

I said, “The dark color draws attention to the ceiling and we don’t want that, we want attention to be redirected. Ignore the moldings! That’s our message.”

No need for more dialogue. There was plenty and with each exchange we deepened our foxholes and restocked our grenades. Finale: he tells me if I want Eggplant, I can hire someone to do it— and I do, toute suite—and it’s the first time the hiree (one of our adopted grandchildren) has ever painted anything so, of course, the job doesn’t meet divine standards.

“Did you notice that the masking tape pulled off some of the wallpaper and now the eye is drawn to big white spaces? What are you going to do about that?” John asked.

I was preparing a new attack, when Lo, a heavenly spirit drifteth over the man and the woman and there was, in the woman, a new idea. And a new voice, unrecognizable in its normalcy.

“I have a palate of eyeshadow that I never wear,” I said, “and it has a little brush and the colors are the same as the wallpaper. You can stand on the ladder and blend the colors into the torn spots.”

He did. He carefully, skillfully, dabbed chocolate eyeshadow into mauve and touched it lightly with blue slate, and applied it to the gaping white holes in the old covering, a man transformed into a Michelangelo of bathroom wallpaper repair, a master of match.

We had a Sistine moment, and then he said, “I’m not crabby at you. I’m upset about what we’re doing to Canada.”

“Me, too,” I said.

And there was peace.

O brave new bathroom, keep us from drinking the daily drek.