If I never see avocado green anything again, it will be a delight (except for guacamole). The Boy and I managed to demolish most of the bathroom, leaving only the toilet and the tile surrounding it, but we both dreaded the cast iron bathtub – and for good reason. On Sunday night I said, “Hey, The Boy, I’d like to soak in a nice relaxing bath tonight,” and he replied, “Ok, well come help me with this real quick.” So I went into the not-quite-a-bathroom-anymore-kind-of-just-a-toilet-room to assist with some small task, which turned into removing a tub three (four?) times my weight. The Boy was batting at the thing with a rubber mallet, which in hindsight, is very laughable. That tub wasn’t going anywhere.
Me: “Hey tub, we are gonna move you now.”
Tub: “Oh really? You and what army?”
Me: “Ummm, just me and The Boy.”
Tub: “LOL. I hope you have good health insurance.”
Here are some pictures of the progress removing tiles, which seems exhausting until you encounter a cast iron tub:
Once we removed all of the tile in front of the tub, it was time to tackle the beast. The Boy was trying to figure out how we would disconnect the drain to lift the tub out, and could not solve this problem. I said, “Well what about the access panel in the closet?” and got a blank stare. “There is an access panel. In the closet. On the other side of that wall.” You would’ve thought I’d invented fantasy football. We trekked into the master-ish bedroom, removed six screws, and had an all-access pass to the plumbing under the tub.
We had to cut the drain pipe to free the tub, which we accomplished using the Sawsall. I was the Flashlight Technician, while The Boy was the Sawsall Operator. Together, a great team.
And then, the grand finale: removal of tub. These photos might make it look easy. IT WAS NOT. Do not be fooled. It took us at least 2 hours to even get the tub out of the alcove, and then another 45 minutes to get it into the driveway. It weighed easily 350 pounds, likely much more, and it was lodged in there exceptionally well. After way too many “1, 2, 3, pull!”‘s, we had this:
After removing some stubborn drywall, we were finally able to wrench the tub from its resting place. We went with the path of least resistance, and rolled the tub onto its side (the apron front).
From there, we stood it up lengthwise, and then laid it back down on its side in the hallway (required four hands and four legs, and The Dog doesn’t have opposable thumbs, so no pictures of that step.)
From here, we set up a trail of towels to avoid scratching the tub. We were under the (terribly mistaken) impression that this tub was worth money. Like, actual cash that someone might be willing to pay us for the privilege of owning this disgusting tub. Yet again, we were very wrong. I wish we had taken a sledgehammer to it. Kohler tubs from the 50’s or 60’s? Very collectible. The 70’s? (suppressing vomit). Live and learn.
After 45 minutes of lifting, grunting, cursing, moving towels, and sore backs, we got this beast into the driveway.
Ouch. After all that effort, approximately 12 hours listed on Craigslist, and 4 phone calls to scrap metal yards (we would have to haul it ourselves to earn maybe $30), we gave up the dream of selling the tub. Instead, we called Chris at Precision One Mobile Metal Recycling, who very promptly came and gave her a new home. He even folded up our tarp and left it on our porch. Thanks, Chris! Two sore backs, a scraped up hand later, and we were free from this oppressive beast. Let the rebuilding begin.