Ways to Organize a House Makeover Without Losing Your MindUpgrading for Resale: What House Hunters Are Really Looking For 70
That tap wasn't even broken. Just temperamental. You had to nudge it a bit sideways and then back a hair to the right to get non-freezing water. If you messed up the angle, it'd shriek. Not loud, but oddly high-pitched — like a kettle screaming. I let it go for too long. Blamed the plumbing. Blamed the apartment. Blamed everything except myself.
One rainy evening, I was home by accident, waiting for the pasta water to boil, and it hit me: I can't stand this setup.
It wasn't a breakdown. More like a feeling that had finally forced its way to the surface. The cabinet handles jiggled, the bench was barely usable, and the overhead storage door slammed my face every time I bent down. I'd started to brace like it was a reflex.
I pulled out a receipt back and wrote “replace kitchen faucet” at the top. Beneath that: “actual counter space,” then “move light switch?” The question mark wasn't a joke. The switch really was inexplicably placed.
I told myself I'd keep it simple. Just swap out the tap. Easy. But standing in the hardware store three days later, confused by finishes, I somehow ended up with tile samples under my arm. And then came the mess.
I didn't get help. I probably should've. Instead, I watched a video at 1am from my friend Rory, who handed it over with a grin Not exactly the instruction manual, but I used it anyway.
Taking down that ugly shelf felt like a rebellion. Against what? I'm not totally sure. Maybe the version of me that made excuses.
The journey spiraled. Not badly, just... as you'd expect. I spent three hours debating grout colors. Got into a minor argument with a guy on a forum about silicone gaps. I still don't really get epoxy, but I'm convinced he was probably guessing.
And the new tap? Still isn't silent. Different sound now. Softer. Almost click here charming. I think I like it. Or maybe I've given up.
It's not a showroom. The tile near the bin's crooked, and the outlet by the toaster wobbles. But when I stand there, I don't feel dread. That alone is a win.
And that notebook? Still on the bench. Nothing new written. Which, honestly, feels good.