The Shag Room had been the bane of my existence since I bought my house three years ago. Despite what Austin Powers may suppose, it derives its name from the cringe-worthy red shag carpet that had been there since the Nixon administration. Actually, my former cat forced me to take care of the carpet situation months ago, when she mistook the room for her litter box. Faced with the nastiest smell I’ve ever encountered, I found the superhuman strength to single-handedly rip up the carpet. The stench was so bad that I searched the house in vain for some kind of mask before improvising one using a rolled up pillowcase and a hair clip.

But the horror of the room didn’t end at the shag carpet. There was weird yellow tweed fabric stapled—yes, stapled—onto four closet doors and walls that weren’t really walls. I have no idea what the walls are made of, but they feel like hardened foam and are the color and texture of a bulletin board. Are you getting the hideous picture?

So, three years into homeownership, my husband and I decided to revamp the room. Why? The same reason many people undertake home improvement projects: a complete lack of forethought on our part.

We gave our full-sized bed to our 10-year-old and traded up to the most comfortable mattress in the universe, which happened to be a queen. We were ecstatic. On the day it was delivered, however, I got the following phone call from my husband: “There’s good news and bad news. The good news is that the mattress is here ahead of schedule. The bad news is that it won’t fit up the stairs to our bedroom.” Oh.

With no other option, my husband directed the movers to set up the bed in the Shag Room (currently in use as his office), which was the only room on the ground floor not being used for things like a kitchen or a bathroom. This left us in quite a pickle: it was easy enough to move his office upstairs to what used to be our bedroom, but we also had to turn the hideous Shag Room into a bedroom that would inspire anything other than revulsion.

Since the new carpet was the only decent thing about the room, we decided what to tackle first by covering our eyes, spinning around, and pointing. My first task was to remove the thousands of staples covering the cabinet doors. I assembled a staple remover, a flat-head screwdriver, scissors, and two kinds of pliers—and spent the next two hours cursing HGTV for all of its home makeover shows that take place within 30 minutes. Liars!

Then it was time for primer and two coats of paint. I chose a vanilla color called Country White largely because I was intrigued by the salesperson’s description of it as a member of the “cheerful neutral” family. Which, of course, made me wonder whether sad people are using the wrong kind of paint.

At some point during the week this all took place, I threw my back out for the first time in my life—while I was brushing my hair, of all things. I’m pretty sure it was karmic retribution for making fun of my mother when a violent sneeze landed her in the same boat a while back.

But since my husband was leaving for a week-long business trip, the room had to be finished pronto. Against his wishes, I took up my post as trim and windowsill painter. I couldn’t bend forward without cursing like a sailor, but I did manage to scoot around on my stomach using my feet as leverage.

We still have some small things to attend to in our new bedroom, but overall, we’re pretty satisfied with the end result. We do need to find another name for the former Shag Room, though. Or maybe not. TPW