Last year, my wife and I bought our first house, a 70-year-old Cape Cod with a little rot on the porch and a few cracks in the ceiling. Of the 14 windows, not one had a screen. The color scheme was pink and mint green. In real-estate parlance, the house had “charm.” We moved in the day we signed the papers.
We made quick work of painting and patching drywall holes, but the bigger challenges were the two upstairs bathrooms. The guest bathroom—specifically the shower—required immediate attention. The plastic stall had yellowed like a used cigarette filter. It had no doors. And when we finally got around to turning on the water, we discovered it drained freely into the room downstairs.
In an act of hubris, I decided to tackle the project myself. I wouldn’t necessarily do all the work, but I’d at least corral various handymen and save myself