Over the weekend, I crossed one of the larger tasks off of my crushingly long post-move-in-to-do list. I finally installed the mosaic tile in the kitchen. We ordered it in a big hurry about 5 months ago.
I’ve had tile work done before, but never tried it myself. I had always considered it a black art practiced by the most elite and mysterious handymen. The kind that prefer to work alone, talk very little, and won’t look you in the eye. Reading the instructions on the grout mix, I felt myself being pulled into their world. “Dampen with a Turkish towel.” Oooh, Turkish! “Cover the grout with #40 paper to slow the drying and repel debris from other trades.” Oooh, those other trades and their icky debris! Cretins!
I chose Saturday, Sunday, and Monday nights to do the work after the kids went to bed. Saturday was gluing and cutting the tiles. The glue didn’t smell that bad. And by 2am, I couldn’t smell it at all. Not so for the rest of the family, each of whom woke up one by one with horror movie nightmares. I hope we didn’t lose too many IQ points that night.
Sunday was grouting, which takes about as long and gluing and cutting. Another night up until 2am. Christiane was getting pretty antsy about getting her kitchen back.
Monday was wiping that last bit of film off and putting all the outlet covers back on. At 24 hours, the grout film is easy to wipe off, but hard to find. I inadvertently grouted a few coffee cups, plates, and knives that were in the sink at the time. It took longer than I thought, but I was only up till 1am.

I did the work in such a flu-fever-late-night-blur that I hardly remember doing it. It looks great, but the mysterious art of tiling still alludes me.
(Modwalls Bungalow Blend)