At 6:30 am, the concrete truck rumbles down the block. Our next-door-neighbor calls—cajoling, begging, threatening—us to call it off. I peek out the shutters and see her talking to our other neighbors. They're anxious to see what's going to happen. I start to fold. My husband, Mike, stays strong. Of course, he’s on his way to work. We pay extra to get an "emergency" survey done, to double check we’re within our setback...
For a distraction, we rent the movie, Friends With Money. Not much of a distraction. One of the stories is about a couple who’re building an addition that blocks their neighbor’s view—they end up alienating their neighbor and getting a divorce. We should've just rented The Money Pit. At least it's funny—in a painful kind of way—and the couple ends up getting back together.
Our contractor finds a structural error our architect made, hires an engineer and goes to the city with new drawings. Ca-ching, ca-ching—might as well get used to that sound. While we’re away, one of the architect’s lackeys comes by and photographs the work in progress. Later that week, we receive a letter from our architect disclaiming any responsibility for the remodel. Whatever. We never liked him anyway.
Our contractor finds a structural error our architect made, hires an engineer and goes to the city with new drawings. Ca-ching, ca-ching—might as well get used to that sound. While we’re away, one of the architect’s lackeys comes by and photographs the work in progress. Later that week, we receive a letter from our architect disclaiming any responsibility for the remodel. Whatever. We never liked him anyway.
It’s hotter than heck and we can't use a fan due to the dust. We move to the basement. At 2 am we’re awakened by the most horrible screeching, grinding noise we’ve ever heard. Then we lose power. The noise is coming from our yard. Something to do with the remodel, perhaps?
Making sure to use the front door—we don't want to fall into the abyss in back—we meet our neighbors outside. Mike, an engineer who works for the local electric company, assures me it’s unrelated to our remodel—a sagging branch making contact with a power line probably caused the arcing and outage. But the neighbors are eyeing us suspiciously. They don't have power either, and it happened in our front yard.
Our contractor talks us into finishing the rest of the basement. "Might as well," we decide, after all, it’s not going to look right to have an old part and a new part. Next day, Drew and I come home, open the front door and walk into a dust cloud so thick we can't see the living room. Our contractor's taken off for a funeral and has left his crew to cut concrete. Their only mistake—using a dry saw instead of a wet one. Mike calls from work to make sure our prized possession, our baby grand piano, is covered. "Umm... it is now."
Our contractor assumes we're on top of things. Boy, is he wrong—I seem to be getting progressively worse at making decisions. In fact, I’m turning into the least decisive person I know. But I'm doing my homework, spending inordinate amounts of time at places like A-boy, Home Depot and Consolidated Plumbing. Somehow I manage to pick out sinks, faucets, and escutcheons—whatever those are. When we choose an expensive tub for our Master bath, a salesperson talks me into an off-white designer color.
Making sure to use the front door—we don't want to fall into the abyss in back—we meet our neighbors outside. Mike, an engineer who works for the local electric company, assures me it’s unrelated to our remodel—a sagging branch making contact with a power line probably caused the arcing and outage. But the neighbors are eyeing us suspiciously. They don't have power either, and it happened in our front yard.
Our contractor talks us into finishing the rest of the basement. "Might as well," we decide, after all, it’s not going to look right to have an old part and a new part. Next day, Drew and I come home, open the front door and walk into a dust cloud so thick we can't see the living room. Our contractor's taken off for a funeral and has left his crew to cut concrete. Their only mistake—using a dry saw instead of a wet one. Mike calls from work to make sure our prized possession, our baby grand piano, is covered. "Umm... it is now."
Our contractor assumes we're on top of things. Boy, is he wrong—I seem to be getting progressively worse at making decisions. In fact, I’m turning into the least decisive person I know. But I'm doing my homework, spending inordinate amounts of time at places like A-boy, Home Depot and Consolidated Plumbing. Somehow I manage to pick out sinks, faucets, and escutcheons—whatever those are. When we choose an expensive tub for our Master bath, a salesperson talks me into an off-white designer color.
I bring a friend up to date on the remodel. She hints she's not sure about the designer color. I panic. What was I thinking? I obsess all night, then call Quebec at 5 am our time. They can’t help me—they're just the manufacturer. When our crew arrives, I mention the tub. Our carpenter laughs and tells a story about an off-white tub he had that he’d scrub and scrub because it never looked clean. I pretend to laugh, then sneak off and call our salesperson, giving her the go-ahead to charge us whatever she needs to in order to make sure our tub is white: not off-white, not white-white, not blue-white, I want creamy white. I realize I’m starting to lose it—there are people dying in the world, and I'm obsessing about different shades of white.
I rationalize that eating at Mike’s Drive-In or cooking on a hot plate and doing dishes in a bathtub every night can contribute to one losing it. Especially when you're half-way across town looking at roofs when you realize you started dinner before you left and there's rice cooking (or burning your house down) on your hot plate at home.
I rationalize that eating at Mike’s Drive-In or cooking on a hot plate and doing dishes in a bathtub every night can contribute to one losing it. Especially when you're half-way across town looking at roofs when you realize you started dinner before you left and there's rice cooking (or burning your house down) on your hot plate at home.
At least I have a photo of our old cabinets ... Our "custom" cabinet guy isn’t helping. We want in-laid cabinets. Bill builds European or overlay. We like exposed hinges. Bill uses European. Bill laughs when I tell him I’d like cabinets like the ones we tore out, “Those were vertical-grain fir cabinets! They'd cost $70,000 to replace!” I hyperventilate as I drive to Rejuvenation Hardware (where we donated our cabinets) as fast as I safely can—well, I must have been going a little over the speed limit, because I receive a "looking kinda out-of-it" photo-radar speeding ticket in the mail a few days later. The Rejuvenation guy listens sympathetically, but he can't help me, “Sorry, those old-growth fir cabinets don’t last—they’re long gone.” I run into an acquaintance on the way out. She offers words of encouragement. But she looks worried about me.
... and our leaded glass panels After several fifty-mile trips to Bill's cabinet shop to iron out our differences, our contractor calls. It’s time to pay up. “I can’t do it,” I tell our contractor. “Bill won't make what we want.” “Why didn’t you just say so? You can get your own cabinet maker.”
“Huh?”
I call everyone I know who’s ever done a remodel to see if we can come over and talk cabinets. We find a sought-after cabinet guy who just happens to have an opening. The best part about our new guy: he listens. But he doesn’t pamper. When I tell him I want our old cabinets replicated in our new kitchen with the leaded glass panels I cleverly saved from our old nook, he's kind but firm. "Nope, those panels are too long. There won’t be enough clearance underneath. Besides, they'd look weird with the other cabinets." I sigh and drive them over to Rejuvenation. To Be Continued...
“Huh?”
I call everyone I know who’s ever done a remodel to see if we can come over and talk cabinets. We find a sought-after cabinet guy who just happens to have an opening. The best part about our new guy: he listens. But he doesn’t pamper. When I tell him I want our old cabinets replicated in our new kitchen with the leaded glass panels I cleverly saved from our old nook, he's kind but firm. "Nope, those panels are too long. There won’t be enough clearance underneath. Besides, they'd look weird with the other cabinets." I sigh and drive them over to Rejuvenation. To Be Continued...
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