“This is 
where your house actually begins,” James said, tying a fluorescent orange bow around the log he’d dragged into the location of my future front door. The question now is whether that front door (excuse me, “entry system”) will be the Ashurst, the Prestwick, the Arcadia, or the Barrington.
Now that the city has officially granted us permission to build (a bargain at $16,452, including the city’s $5 “technology fee” and a
four dollar and fifty cent charge for the state building permit), the project has lost a degree of hypotheticality and my life has evolved into a happier shade of chaos (I call it Quivering Sunburst). My condo is sold, most of my belongings are in storage, and the 47-page lumber package bid has finally arrived (see photo). Now I can focus on truly important issues--this week: doors and bathroom fixtures for my invisible house.
“This is your homework,” James told me last Wednesday as we sat at the Colophon (I had the gazpacho—fantastic!) He passed me a worksheet with teeny-tiny blanks into which I was to write the model number and price of all of my appliances, lighting items, bathroom fixtures, and doors. Despite my difficulty selecting an Entry System, choosing interior doors was pretty easy.
“I want solid wood doors,” I announced, perhaps envisioning a future requiring excessive privacy from houseguests or stepchildren. “None of those ticky-tacky hollow things. I want a door I can throw a hairbrush at.”[1]
James shook his head. “They don’t really make solid wood doors anymore. Too heavy.”
“What?!”
“Well, they’re solid, but they’re not exactly solid wood,” he explained. “To really understand, we need to take a trip to the door factory…”
Ten minutes later, more fully educated in the manufacture of interior residential doors, I re-surveyed my options, leaning towards more traditional 6-panel “Jefferson” or “Plantation” or “Elite Virginian” or some such thing but opting for the classy but simple “Cambridge,” with its “ovolo[2] sticking profile.”
Choosing bathroom features was tougher, in part because of tricky trends like tempting sinks that sit on the counter like shiny fruit bowls and lots of slick glossy catalogues from European companies that make a visit to the john look like a day at the spa (only without the paper bras).
Here’s the dealio: I want a toilet that flushes with precision.
I don’t need a bidet or a special Japanese toilet seat that shoots water at my undercarriage. I don’t care what brand it is as long as it’s not the same lidless jobs they put in prison cells. Self-cleaning would be swell, and so would a toilet with a seat that automatically slams down and frightens men when they don’t put it back in the proper position. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. But that’s just my little fantasy.
I cannot get excited about bathroom sinks. In my world, they are repositories for toothpaste globs and spiders that I’ve had to squish for frightened houseguests. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I don’t know or care what “undermount” or “self-rimming” means. Both sound suspiciously like something from Penthouse Forum, so no-thank-you, I’ll just go with the vessel that fits in the hole on the counter and holds water. Taps, toilets, tubs=basics are a-ok. I’ll spice things up with purple towels and sassy shower curtains.
Oh, yeah, and I might spring for a whirlpool tub in the downstairs bath. It won’t be long before you’ll find me there, I hope, with my aromatherapy candles and my soothing bath oils. Just peek behind the Cambridge. That’s the entry system without the hairbrush-shaped hole in it.
[1] As a curly-haired pre-teen, I struggled to achieve the popular feathered look of the early 80’s and at one point, blamed both my hairbrush and the bathroom door. See photo.
[2] I don’t know what it is, either.
where your house actually begins,” James said, tying a fluorescent orange bow around the log he’d dragged into the location of my future front door. The question now is whether that front door (excuse me, “entry system”) will be the Ashurst, the Prestwick, the Arcadia, or the Barrington.Now that the city has officially granted us permission to build (a bargain at $16,452, including the city’s $5 “technology fee” and a
four dollar and fifty cent charge for the state building permit), the project has lost a degree of hypotheticality and my life has evolved into a happier shade of chaos (I call it Quivering Sunburst). My condo is sold, most of my belongings are in storage, and the 47-page lumber package bid has finally arrived (see photo). Now I can focus on truly important issues--this week: doors and bathroom fixtures for my invisible house.“This is your homework,” James told me last Wednesday as we sat at the Colophon (I had the gazpacho—fantastic!) He passed me a worksheet with teeny-tiny blanks into which I was to write the model number and price of all of my appliances, lighting items, bathroom fixtures, and doors. Despite my difficulty selecting an Entry System, choosing interior doors was pretty easy.
“I want solid wood doors,” I announced, perhaps envisioning a future requiring excessive privacy from houseguests or stepchildren. “None of those ticky-tacky hollow things. I want a door I can throw a hairbrush at.”[1]
James shook his head. “They don’t really make solid wood doors anymore. Too heavy.”“What?!”
“Well, they’re solid, but they’re not exactly solid wood,” he explained. “To really understand, we need to take a trip to the door factory…”
Ten minutes later, more fully educated in the manufacture of interior residential doors, I re-surveyed my options, leaning towards more traditional 6-panel “Jefferson” or “Plantation” or “Elite Virginian” or some such thing but opting for the classy but simple “Cambridge,” with its “ovolo[2] sticking profile.”
Choosing bathroom features was tougher, in part because of tricky trends like tempting sinks that sit on the counter like shiny fruit bowls and lots of slick glossy catalogues from European companies that make a visit to the john look like a day at the spa (only without the paper bras).
Here’s the dealio: I want a toilet that flushes with precision.
I don’t need a bidet or a special Japanese toilet seat that shoots water at my undercarriage. I don’t care what brand it is as long as it’s not the same lidless jobs they put in prison cells. Self-cleaning would be swell, and so would a toilet with a seat that automatically slams down and frightens men when they don’t put it back in the proper position. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. But that’s just my little fantasy.I cannot get excited about bathroom sinks. In my world, they are repositories for toothpaste globs and spiders that I’ve had to squish for frightened houseguests. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I don’t know or care what “undermount” or “self-rimming” means. Both sound suspiciously like something from Penthouse Forum, so no-thank-you, I’ll just go with the vessel that fits in the hole on the counter and holds water. Taps, toilets, tubs=basics are a-ok. I’ll spice things up with purple towels and sassy shower curtains.
Oh, yeah, and I might spring for a whirlpool tub in the downstairs bath. It won’t be long before you’ll find me there, I hope, with my aromatherapy candles and my soothing bath oils. Just peek behind the Cambridge. That’s the entry system without the hairbrush-shaped hole in it.
[1] As a curly-haired pre-teen, I struggled to achieve the popular feathered look of the early 80’s and at one point, blamed both my hairbrush and the bathroom door. See photo.
[2] I don’t know what it is, either.
