Fixing the Fucking Sinkhole Part 2

To recap: We had a huge fucking sinkhole in our kitchen for a long, long time, and whenever we wanted a snack we had to cross a plywood bridge over the gaping chasm to get through. 

Now, it finally got bad enough that even VikingDad thought, "This is ridiculous" and declared that the time had come for us to fix the sinkhole.
"Time for YOU to fix the sinkhole," I corrected, "With my input and direction."
So we argued a bit about who would do what, and who would decide what, and how to go about it.    VikingDad would do most of it.  And so we proceeded to destroy the floor.

Wielding a mighty pry bar, VikingDad smashed and pried, scooped out the mushy stuff, slammed through the solid stuff.  He made a huge mess.

I had to clean it up.  So I did.  It smelled horrible, and felt like those slimy rocks that sit on the bottom of a pond.  The tile was light, but the boards were heavy and soaked through with some vile sludge mix of mold, dirt, and whatever remained of those who fell victim to the sinkhole's vile clutches.  VikingDad would spend a day smashing through the tile and floorboards, and I would spend a day and a half hauling the chunks out to the trash can.  The sinkhole stopped looking like a sinkhole, and more like a huge chasm in our floor.  Progress!

After we got that huge mess taken care of, I had to scrape the sludge and rotten wood off the bottom of the floor.  So I got a scraper and got to it, toiling day and night in the heat, scraping all the sludge and rotten wood off the bottom and sides.  It was not as fun as VikingDad's "hulk smash" method of tearing out our floor, but it was just as physically difficult.  For weeks upon weeks I toiled, sweat running down my face, scraper in hand.  And after that, I had to haul out the chunks I scraped and sweep and shovel up the smaller chunks.

(It kind of felt like that. )

VikingDad enlisted VikingLad to help take care of the wall, where part of the sludge started creeping up the drywall.  He was SUPPOSED to cut out the moldy parts in a squared off line, so we could get replacement drywall.  The "square" he cut out looked more like a jagged wave.  VikingDad and I scrutinized the finished work with narrow eyes and confused looks.  Whose idea of a straight line is that, anyway?  This is what happens when barbarian teenagers are put in charge of doing something!

Then, came the bleaching.  It was VikingDad who did that, since I morally object to having to do all the cleaning myself.  After that, it looked kind of good, like maybe the hole actually belonged there instead of stumbled upon our floor accidentally in a drunken, chaotic stupor.

After that, VikingDad tried to fit the drywall I bought into the haphazard lines VikingLad cut, filled in the cracks and holes, used his authority to compel VikingLad into sanding everything, and then I painted the walls.

(The plywood bridge came back so we could set our crap on it while I slathered paint on the walls.)

Hey, it started looking like a real kitchen (kind of)!