When we bought our rundown fixer-upper, replacing the wall-to wall turquoise shag carpeting in the master bathroom was not high on our priority list,mainly because we regarded the bathroom as a lost cause. In addition to the shag carpeting the bathroom also featured plastic vertical blinds in a floral motif and hot pink floor-to-ceiling tile on all 4 walls: Standing in the bathroom made me feel like a lizard that was swallowed whole by a flamingo.
We lived with the turquoise shag carpeting for several months until we finally determined that it was the cause of the musty odor which pervaded the house. Unbeknownst to us, there was an old, slow link under the rusted sink which had rotted both the carpeting and the padding beneath it. I got to the point where I was obsessing over the carpet so one night on a whim I ripped it up. “After all,” I told my partner, “whatever is underneath it can’t be any worse.”
I was wrong.
What was underneath the turquoise shag carpeting were hot pink linoleum tiles, of the “peel & stick” variety so popular in the 1970s . The linoleum was, impossibly, a deeper, richer, more vibrant shade of pink than the walls and I now felt like a lizard that was swallowed whole by a flamingo who had been dosed with Pepto Bismal.
We lived with the pink linoleum for over a year, but one night on a whim I ripped it up. “After all,” I told my partner, “whatever is underneath the linoleum can’t be any worse.”
I was wrong again.
Beneath the linoleum was a horrible terrazzo floor which was filthy and pitted, cracked and stained. My partner and I stared at the terrazzo in appalled silence. “We could always see what’s beneath the terrazzo,” he said helpfully, staring at a stain that would have felt right at home on a Rorsach test as I nodded bleakly.
We decided on the spot to have the bathroom floor tiled and be done with it, but our friend Brad came to visit that weekend. Brad is one of those relentlessly upbeat overachievers who can tackle any home improvement project: he exists to make incompetent men like me feel bad about ourselves. Brad is the kind of guy who says things like, ”I have an hour before my triathlon; I may as well install that crown molding.”
Now, Brad was horrified that we would consider tiling over the terrazzo. “Just restore it,” he said. “Everyone’s doing it. You just grind it down, apply several coats of acid, grind it some more, buff and polish it and you have a gorgeous floor.” He nodded with satisfaction, never noticing the worried glance that my partner and I exchanged at the thought that we might acid wash the floor ourselves.
“A restored terrazzo floor in the bathroom can add $20,000 to the value of your house,” said Brad, and even though we have no plans to sell the house anytime soon, we were starstruck. We nodded dreamily, dollar signs in our eyes.
Because we are not Brad, restoring the floor ourselves was never seriously discussed so we found a company that specializes in that type of thing. The Terrazzo Man echoed what Brad said. “For a small investment,” said the Terrazzo Man, “you got a gorgeous floor that will last the rest of your life. A restored terrazzo floor can add $30,000 to the value of your house,” he said.
Terrazzo Man spent an entire joyous day grinding and sanding, acid washing and polishing and then grinding some more. Around 5 pm he called us into the bathroom and displayed his handiwork with a flourish. Wonder of wonders: He had taken a filthy, pitted, stained terrazzo floor and in just eight hours transformed it into a clean, pitted, stained terrazzo floor. “Some jobs come out better than others,” he mumbled before he took our check and fled.
Brad came over again that weekend, looked at our floor and sighed. Then he patted me on the back. “This is what makes home improvement an adventure!” he said brightly. He looked speculatively at the floor. “Have you considered staining it? he asked. “All you need is a gallon of concrete stain. Everyone’s doing it. “