Estimated reading time — 11 minutes

I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life. As of 11 this morning, I am officially a homeowner. Leaving my lawyer’s office (I have a lawyer, how cool is that?), I’m tempted to shout: “Watch out, independent woman coming through!” There’s an extra hop in my step as I conduct a methodical search of the parkade. While I’m capable of graduating college with honors and buying a condo at twenty-two, keeping track of my car is apparently an overreach.

My parents are super proud of me, but they don’t want me to move out. I’m their only child and an empty nest is not on their bucket list. My mom thinks I’m rushing things and calls my newly acquired condo “an absolute dump.” Such negativity coming from a woman who wears rose-colored glasses! She’s right though, I am in a hurry. Driving through their perfectly manicured suburban neighborhood of carbon-copy houses, I let out a huge sigh of relief. I swear I’ve been holding my breath for years, since puberty at least. A bit dramatic I know, but accurate, nonetheless. I can’t wait to leave this Stepford life behind. My eyes dart to the speedometer and I ease up on the pedal. With my childhood safely in the rearview mirror, a speeding ticket will only slow me down.

My dad bought me this shiny new Range Rover as a college graduation present. It replaced the shiny new Audi sportscar he gave me after prom, which in turn replaced the shiny new Jeep Wrangler he gave me on my sixteenth birthday. Spoiled, right? The reason I can afford a warehouse condo in the industrial part of town is that I saved every dollar he slipped me over the years. I’m daddy’s little girl, and he’s bound and determined to keep it that way. Whether he likes it or not, this birdie is leaving the nest.

Despite the silver spoon lodged firmly in my throat, I work hard. I guess you could say I’m driven. While my friends were partying, I was studying and saving. A social life … what’s that? I ghosted my closest friends as soon as I started college. Full disclosure: We weren’t that tight to begin with. I managed to secure an internship at the most prestigious architectural firm in the city, by working my ass off, literally. I barely had time to eat. Most people graduate from the program in five years, but I did it in four. I’m dying for independence.

Luckily, my new firm is okay with me taking some time off before I start. They’re busy and anxious for me to begin and yet convincing them that I needed a few days to myself was a piece of cake compared to convincing my parents. Calling my dad controlling is like calling Trump a sore loser — an epic understatement. Regardless of its inevitability, my dad will never accept my emancipation. I’ll show him though! I’ve promised a remarkable transformation if they just leave me alone for a few days. They’ll be banging down the door, for real, if I make them wait any longer than that.

I’m practically jumping out of my skin as I park my Rover and gather my supplies from the trunk. Before getting into the rickety service elevator, I power down my phone. If I’m not disciplined, I’ll end up wasting my precious time mindlessly scrolling through TikTok, Facebook, and Insta, or YouTubing and Googling “how-to” videos for the next few days instead of doing the work. The main reason I turn my phone off though is that I can’t handle the incessant, pestering texts from you know who. I have less than a week to show them what I can do. Let ‘Operation Makeover’ begin.

My mother was not wrong — this place is a dump. The building is a hundred years old and my unit smells like it. Although the makeover is mostly cosmetic, a minor facelift won’t cut it. Rusty, gnarly nails protrude from every wall and the hardwood floor is full of splinters. The bedroom is especially nasty, covered in ratty, stained wallpaper, so thin it’s almost see-through. The windows are coated in grime with barely any light filtering through. Layers of filth stick to every surface. And do not even get me started on the bathroom! I swear, the amount of hair and bodily fluids left behind could morph together, stand up, and walk out the door. Now that I mention it, I’d appreciate that. If Chewbacca left on his own accord, then I wouldn’t be forced to touch his hairy bits.

At first (second, and third) glance, it’s a tear-down rather than a fixer upper. A flamethrower might be my best bet. Even though it’s used and dirty, I feel its potential. I can imagine in vivid colour how things could be different, better. I know my hard work will pay off and that this will be my masterpiece. I’m wired and will not rest until this makeover is complete.

Where to begin? With doubt and nervous energy forming a steel ball in my gut, I slip off my flip-flops to get comfortable in the space. While inspecting my mini-mountain of supplies, my eyes zero in on the hammer. I’ll begin with nail removal. How hard can that be? I need something easy, a confidence-boost to get me started.

I pick up the hammer. It’s smallish but heavier than expected. I turn it around, so the claw faces the nail, carefully wedge it in, and pull. It doesn’t budge. The nail is way deeper than I would’ve thought. I pry, tentatively at first but eventually using all my might for several minutes, and it barely loosens. Even hammering it accomplishes next to nothing. Holy shit! How am I gonna to do this if I can’t even pull out a damn nail? With nobody here to hear or help me, I switch to Plan B. I step gingerly across the dusty floor back over to my toolbox and grab the pliers. Plan B involves pliers and brute strength, and despite the damage this may cause, the nails have got to go. I just need to get one out and then I’ll be on my way.
Pliers in hand, I step into the kitchen, grab the massive bottle of Patron (part of the supply run, of course!) and pour myself a shot. I raise the clear plastic glass with my right hand in a mock ‘cheers,’ tilt my head back and pound it. The pliers never leave my left hand. For a moment, I let doubt creep in. How the fuck did I think I could I do this? I hate this hesitant, nervous feeling. It’s so not me. I’m always on a mission. Thankfully, in the ten seconds it takes for the tequila to burn its way down to my stomach, my nerves dissipate. The pliers now feel like an appendage, a natural extension of me. I’ve got this! My goal is clear, my deadline is short, and there is no more time for fear or doubt.

The first nail is the hardest. The pliers are the answer though and my long-standing obsession with physical fitness is finally paying off. Despite having the necessary muscle strength, my grip strength could have used some work. Who knew? I keep at it and soon have my method down to a science: Get a good hold of the nail, twist, pull, and rip it. Oh, and a tequila shot every so often doesn’t hurt either. I’m at it for hours before I finish, feeling tired and sore but also exhilarated. The fear of failure, a reoccurring image of me at my parents’ door with my tail between my legs, lessens with every nail I pull. I can almost taste my independence.

Exhilaration is quickly replaced by nausea and an overwhelming need to lie down. When I vowed not to rest until this reno is over, I lied. It might be the tequila, I’m not exactly sure; I’ve never been much of a drinker, so figuring out how much is too much is a work in progress. I’ll keep that in mind going forward but for now I’m closing my eyes, just for a minute.

When I wake, I have no idea how much time has passed. This never happens. Normally, I’m a light and fitful sleeper, rarely resting for more than an hour or two at a time. I feel like I’ve been asleep for days. Did I pass out? I turn on the kitchen tap and splash water on my face. A peek through the decaying shade does little to shed light on the issue. The glass itself is so dirty that it’s impossible to tell if it’s day or night. My deep and unexpected slumber is not the only thing throwing off my once keen powers of observation — I suspect the copious amount of booze still coursing through my veins is a contributing factor. Clearly, moderation is not my thing. Hey Home Network, if you are listening, I have a new idea for a show: “Extreme Drunk Makeover.” I know I’d watch. Ha ha.

I’m so tempted to turn on my phone to check the time and date, but I know where that will lead. Not closer to my goal, that’s for sure. Here’s a crazy idea: I could lift the shades and clean the windows to better gauge the time, but cleaning is last on my list, and I refuse to deviate from my plan. I’ve come too far. Besides, I’m finding the shadowiness comforting which is weird given that I’ve spent the last ten years of my life deathly afraid of the dark. When my mother wanted to send me to a psychiatrist, my father assured her my night terrors would resolve on their own. They didn’t. In any event, my makeover will be done soon and then I’ll welcome the light.

Next on my list is the nasty wallpaper. I grab the scraper in one hand and sandpaper in the other. God damn me! Why didn’t I think to buy an electric sander? And . . . I’m talking to myself again. Clearly, I’m much chattier when I drink. Since a DUI is not on my bucket list, it’s too late to go to the hardware store. It looks like I’m doing it by hand. It’s good exercise, I guess. I pick a spot down low near the floor and start sanding. Almost immediately, I’m pouring sweat, buckets of it. Eww! In my rush to get started, I failed to put any thought into my outfit. This oversized hoodie is suffocating me. I strip it off followed by the rest of my clothes. What the heck? Nobody to flash here!

The gross paper does not want to come off but there is no way in hell it’s staying. I scratch, pick, and tear at it, and as soon as it starts to peel, it rips, and I’m back to square one. I settle on alternating among sanding, scraping, and using my fingers to grab, pinch, and peel. It’s messy, painstaking work. Although I can be a bit of a princess, I assure you this job is not for the faint of heart. At this point, ‘dead on my feet’ is barely an exaggeration.

Again, I turn to my new best friend: tequila. This reno would be impossible without it. Hey Home Network, it’s me with another show idea: “Save My Reno, Tequila Edition.” I don’t remember the last time I ate. With alcohol as my only fuel, I grab the bottle and lift it to my lips. There’s no need for a glass this time. I tip my head, pouring the last ounces down my thick fuzzy throat. Somehow the numbness keeps me on course. I work feverishly, rarely pausing to catch my breath. No rest for the weary, not yet anyway. I know I’m pushing myself too hard, but if I stop now, I fear I’ll never finish.

After much blood, sweat, and tears, I’m ready to transition from demo to painting. This will be more fun. I’m excited to flex my creative muscles. From my pile of supplies, I retrieve two cans of paint, a wooden stir stick, and two brushes, one big and one small. When I bend over again to grab the flathead screwdriver, I almost puke. Get a fricking grip! I collect myself and carry everything over to the freshly stripped and sanded wall. My color choice is bold: red, blood red. Used sparingly, it will make the desired statement. The headboard wall in the bedroom and a mural in the bathroom only. It is the perfect choice for both. Other than a bit of black stenciling, the rest of the place will remain neutral, allowing the red to really pop. A showstopper.

I pry off the lids with the screwdriver and use the wooden stick to stir the can of red paint. Since I neglected to get a second stir stick, I wipe it with my bare hands just enough so that it won’t drip, flip it around, and stir the can of black paint with the other end of the stick. I start with the larger brush and paint the feature wall. I make quick work of it, slapping it on and spreading it about. Painting is not exactly rocket science. Stenciling with the finer brush takes more time and precision. Funny thing, I always thought people with painted sayings in their spaces were basic and uninspired, and yet here I am feeling rather inspired! The bathroom mural takes no time at all. I pause to admire my handiwork before throwing my hoodie back on.

Cleaning is the last item on the list. I’ve been stepping on nails since I started this project, so I grab the red supermarket broom and start sweeping. With the end in sight, adrenaline pumps through my veins and yet sweeping is such an effort. Without a dustpan or garbage bag handy, I designate the corner of the tiled bathroom floor as their final resting place.

With the nails out of the way, I can get down to the dirty stuff. I’m a thorough and ambitious cleaner and bleach is the only option. With years of filth to remove, a less intense disinfectant will not cut it. I don my bright yellow rubber gloves, role up my sleeves, and get to work scrubbing every inch. I go at it so aggressively that I rub the finish off in a few spots and I’m totally okay with that. By the time I’m finishing up in the bathroom, the smell of bleach is burning my eyes and nose and making me dizzy. Even so, I welcome it. I close my eyes and breathe in the clean. Several deep breaths later, the room starts to spin.
When I open my eyes, I’m standing on the rooftop deck of an old building but can’t for the life of me remember how I got here. When I peer over the ledge and see my car parked in the lot, I regain my bearings, relax, close my eyes, reveling in the sounds and smells of the city. I’m at peace — until I’m not. Nauseous and dizzy again, when I try to right myself, I trip and stumble off the edge. I’m falling and there’s nothing I can do to save myself.

When my body slams onto the cold, cracked concrete, I wake up with a violent jerk. Surveying my surroundings, it takes me a minute to realize I’m lying in a pile of my own drool on my bathroom floor. But it’s more than drool. It looks like blood, a lot of blood. Did I get my period? Or did I hurt myself somehow? I think I might have peed too. Ick!

I grab onto the pedestal sink and pull myself up. My phone and shooter glass, along with the bottle of Clorox, are propped precariously on its skinny ledge. Weird because I don’t remember leaving them there. For the first time since I started this transformation, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I pull my soaked hoodie over my head and use it to wipe the glass. That’s better, I can see clearly now, the film is gone.

I tremble while pouring myself a shot and with what little strength I have left, raise the clear plastic glass in my right hand in a mock ‘cheers,’ tilt my head back and pound it. It burns – my throat is on fire! I steady myself with both arms straddling the filthy sink, trying not to vomit. I shiver then close my eyes and shake my head like I’m trying to free trapped pool water from my ears. I take a deep breath, grow still, slowly raise my head and open my eyes to stare at my reflection. I see pain and ugliness, but I also see strength and beauty. I smile a sad, satisfied smile because for the first time in my life, I’m proud of myself.
With my quivering left hand, I pick up my phone from the ledge of the sink. I power it on, ignoring the notifications beeping and flashing at me, and find my camera. I take a selfie in the mirror’s reflection, making sure that “Daddy’s Little Girl” scrawled in black paint across my raw, sanded and peeling chest is legible. The outside finally reflects the inside. No more secrets.

Feathering my fingers across the screen, I stroke the horrifying image with pride. In the mirror’s reflection the photo captures the bathroom corner where my finger and toenails are piled like an abstract sculpture. The photo also captures the stunning mural on the wall opposite the sink. The bits of skin and hair add texture and movement to the bloody creation. It’s breathtaking. My masterpiece is complete, no filters required. I scroll until I find his contact info, select, and press send.

I grab the bottle, lift it to my lips, and drain it — no need for a glass. I welcome the retching when it begins. My insides are scorched, proving all my hard work has paid off. I am no longer dirty, but he is forever disgusting. Despite my theatrical swan song, she will remain oblivious, and I don’t care. What I do care about is that his advances have been repaid in full. The thought of him finding me in a pool of blood, piss, and vomit, makes my once-shattered spirit soar; a phoenix rising from the ashes. A bit dramatic I know, but accurate, nonetheless. Finally, the shades are raised, the light is pouring in, and I can rest. Makeover complete.

Credit: Jodi C. Vaughan

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