"It's going to be just like Christmas!" people said about the archeological adventure of moving my belongings from two storage units, Mom and Dad's house, and Laural's basement. Opening all those boxes and rediscovering the possessions that had been packed away for a year might have been like a holiday...if my idea of a suitable gift included a liquor box stuffed with pantyhose and orphaned socks.

It's been a week now sinces James took my hand and announced solemnly, "Well, Cathy Belben, my work here is done," loaded up his borrowed tractor and drove away, leaving me and Frida watching from the driveway of my now complete home. We are ensconced comfortably in the abode I've come to think of as The Nap Castle (after my fondness for naps and also because I can take one in nearly every room)--and by "we," I mean me, Frida, occasionally Kosha, and of course, Andale, who tolerates our presence.

Among the surprises of home ownership and residence in The Nap Castle is that there really aren't that many surprises. This is exactly the house I wanted to build and live in. This nighborhood is the place I want to come home to at night and walk my dog(s) around during the day. The people whose houses border mine are the people I want to greet, help, and gossip with. My only disappointments are that the on/off switch for the garbage disposal is too far from the sink and that black granite countertops are, in fact, hard to keep clean (I can hear you out there, people, you and your "I told you so's.")

I was fortunate not to have to invest in loads of new furniture--just a couple of beds for the guest rooms--and have spent more time and money on decorations, specifically art. My friend R.R. "Randy" Clark (a.k.a. Fishboy) has contributed two pieces so far--one with the lyrics from a Twineman song, and the other a three-dimensional art box "peep show" that continues on with my boobie art theme. He's also currently finishing a piece which combines my love of thrift stores, words, and humor.

The only way for you to see these (the cat, the dogs, the house, the art) in their full glory is to come on over. I won't even charge you--which is not the case with guests of my in-the-process-of-being-established bed and breakfast business (more on that at another time; suffice to say that I have two rooms, am currently advertising on Craigslist, and have some guests booked for this weekend!)

The house is done. The grass seed is planted. And this blogger is going to devote herself to some other writing pursuits (perhaps a collection of essays on how to get back in shape after a year of random, occasional workouts and restaurant meals). My work here is done.

This Has Been a Sycamore Woodworking and Building Production

Featuring...
James Bradbury, Contractor, and His Able Assistant, Jon Orange Supported in their roles by Jennifer Bradbury and Melissa Orange.
Gretchen Van Dusen, Set Design
Paul and Susan Belben, Executive Producers
Laural, Tom, Noah, and Dana, Props and Wardrobe
Diane Blake, Spiritual Advisor

Pippin, Nicky, Millissa, Aimee, Cameron, Herb, and anyone else at BEHS who put up with me and my scatteredness and occasional meltdowns over house-related chaos this year

Paula Wlaznak, Color Quality Control and Kitchen Design
(Remember how when you were a kid there was always that one friend's house you loved hanging out at because they had better food or a cooler car or whatever? Well, in my world, that was Amy's house...and it has extended long beyond just fourth grade. Her mom, Paula, has been welcoming me into her life and her kitchen for 30 years, despite my many attempts to corrupt her daughter. Highlights this year have included celebrating Paula's birthday on the beach in Puerto Vallarta and tapping her design-savvy brain for ideas about the house.)

John and Amy Boyle, Craft Services and Travel Consultants

(In the real world of Hollywood, Craft Services is the amazing spread of food and treats provided on set for the cast and crew. In my world, it's the people who open their homes and refrigerators, their backyards and guest rooms for me when I need food/shelter/a moment of puppy-free peace and provide me with hijabs when I'm having a bad hair day.)

Art McKinnon, Floor Manager
Art is aptly named. His ideas for flooring and tiling were creatively designed and beautifully implemented, and he was patient with me when I kept referring to Travertine as "tetrazzini." He and his crew installed the wood floors, slate in the bathrooms, entries, and shower, and tiled the baths. I am so excited by the use of natural stone and colors that feel northwesty and yet, still warm.

Ann Martin, Lighting (Village Lighting)
John Major, Painting

whoever the guy is that loaned James the tractor
Andy, Fred, Kathleen and the Crew at Buyer's Market

Note to Self

It is my goal to avoid giving advice when acquaintances build their homes just because I've now done it and of course know everything. Instead I will present in one chunk ten pieces of wisdom I've accumulated over the past year and then forever hold my piece.

1. Find one place to live and then stay there. Moving around house-sitting and living out of a van isn't worth the trouble, and you won't save that much money, anyway. Mostly you'll just end up with a lot of mismatched shoes and a serious case of residential vertigo. This would be Priority Numero Uno on the "Stuff I'd Do Differently" list of advice for any future homebuilding projects I might endure (which I won't, because I plan to live at 1510 17th until my withered, dusty nonegenarian corpse has to be Shop-Vac’d off the sofa).

2. Take photos of everything and everyone involved in the project from beginning to end. This will remind you of the progress you've made, keep a record for future enjoyment, and document the faces of subcontractors who may or may not have left their cigarette butts in your driveway. Also, take a lot of photos of yourself looking harried and sloppy (I recommend a gray hoodie and paint-stained jeans) so that when you finally move in and are back to normal, you can take comfort knowing how much better you look now that the stress has ended.

3. No matter how cute they look in pictures, wait until AFTER you move in to adopt a giant puppy. In my case, adopting Frida when I did was not optimal timing, but because she was part of a package deal--the twin of Kahlo, who was adopted by my lifelong friend Amy and the nephew of Amy's dog Copan--it was unavoidable to bring her into my life when I did. Frida has kept me occupied and less stressed about the house, but she's also given me tendonitis in my elbows and made me appreciate the importance of carefully stashing anything chewable.

4. Plan some stock answers to questions because you will get asked the same thing over and over again. Usually I'm asked when I'm moving in, and I say "as soon as the house is done," which sounds smart-alecky, but I don't mean it to. I don't know when I get to move in, so it's the only answer I have. Lots of people ask "what's the [bedroom/kitchen/etc]" in your house like?" and I have wasted a lot of time describing these spaces, when I should have wiggled my eyebrows and said, "You'll just have to come over and see for yourself" wink, wink. At least if the inquirer was a George Clooney lookalike.

5. Stay busy, but not too busy. I believe that I took on too many projects during the course of construction. Or maybe it just feels that way. Maybe I wasn't doing that much, but it just felt like it because I was constantly packing things into boxes and moving them from place to place and driving around with a truck-cab full of costumes/athletic equipment/dog paraphernalia. But a healthy level of busy-ness can detract from the tedium of waiting, a lesson I failed to remember on Sunday while I sat for 3 hours preceding my leg of the Ski to Sea Race (I mountain-biked…see photo of this year’s disguise).

6. Craigslist! James has to cover his eyes when I back into the driveway, knowing as he does that I've been spending way too much time accumulating stuff for the house that has to be stored at the new place and is therefore competing with the table saw and assorted other construction items for space in the garage. Alas. I’ve saved a ton of money on a used washer and dryer, a set of patio furniture, a bed, lights, and a dog kennel. I also saved $275 by NOT purchasing the giant 6-foot tampon sculpture recently posted for sale.

7. Commit yourself to learning from the experience. Hard to say how knowing what a rafter tail, a jamb saw, or a belly board are will enhance my life in later years, but it’s fun to learn something every day...whether I want to or not. For example, I learned from my parents that I was conceived in this house on 14th Street, just three blocks from the new house. Cool...and ewww.

8. Take risks, be bold, and build the house you want to live in. Unless someone advises against the fire-walking pit in the living room or a swimming pool on the second floor, you're going to be happiest fulfilling your own dream of home, and not building a showplace that others will envy or admire. YOU are the one who will be living there...they'll just be stopping by occasionally for cocktails, in which case you can numb their disappointment about the ideas they pitched that you rejected.

9. Do the happy dance. I know no one wants to picture me doing my Elaine Benes impression on the balcony, but it has happened. More than once. When I’m not griping about waiting and making decisions and hauling my possessions all over town, I’m celebrating, and that seems like the smartest thing I can do.

10. Maintain your sense of humor. I genuinely believe that if you’re not laughing, you’re not doing it right—whatever “it” is. I am completely guilty of having lost my sense of perspective, and with it my smile, during several stressful moments in the last year, but ultimately, I’ve had a lot of fun and many laughs during this process—and I know that once I move in, they’ll continue to multiply.

Welcome to Einsteinia

"If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what then, is an empty desk?" -Albert Einstein.

One of my favorite books from the past year is A Perfect Mess: The Hidden Benefits of Disorder by Eric Abrahamson and David R. Freeman. Freeman and Abrahamson's thesis is that we lift in an order-obsessed culture that overlooks some of the positive side effects of certain kinds of mess. We tend to ignore the fact, for example, that organization takes time, is often expensive, and may frequently create more problems than it solves. Messes can lead to creativity, greater flexibility, and in many cases, just make us happier because we're not spending emotional energy and time fixing, tidying, cleaning, and classifying when we could be napping, singing, and playing with dogs/kids/toys.

My entire life, or at least enormous portions of it, has been for the last 10.5 months, a perfect mess. Well, maybe "perfect" is a bit exaggetory. Exhibit A: I am now living in my 9th "home" (quotation marks entirely justified) since selling the condo in July, and that counts 5 days I spent sleeping in my van.

Exhibit B: Saturday, I tossed clothers from my dryer onto the floor. Sunday, I sorted them into piles (towels, running gear, unmentionables). Monday, I stepped over them. Tuesday, I chastised Andale for shedding on my favorite cords. Wednesday, I put them "away" (i.e. stashed them in the overstuffed Rubbermaid bins in my closet.

Exhibit C: In the past three weeks, I have adopted a 38-pound puppy (Frida, pictured), begun marathon training, applied for summer jobs, spent several nights babysitting my three-year-old friend Henry, attended Cinco de Mayo and Chinese-themed birthday parties, resumed writing group, organized a Ski to Sea team, and volunteered to portray FBI agent Monica Venus for my friend Jen's book reading in Seattle. Oh, yeah. And I'm building a house.

Or rather, James is, and he's doing a mighty fine job fine-tuning the ever-decreasing mess at 1510 17th. Among the accomplishments in recent days, the house now features a front porch complete with decking, a hand-crafted railing, and steps. In addition, there is a working doorbell, functioning lights in most rooms, switches and outlets, a garage door, completed wood floor and nearly-almost-entirely finished slate flooring (thanks Art and John O!) and the beginnings of travertine walls in my shower and tub.

In even more gigantic news, Elements Design delivered and installed my kitchen and bath cabinets (!!!), including my desk center and bookcase. I now have a home for my Rachael Ray Library and all those Weight Watchers cookbooks that don't seem to be doing any good. Viva la construccion!

The interior painting is complete, and I don't hate any of it. The front bedroom (henceforth known as The Sunshine Room) glows with a soft yellow, the back bedroom is the exact shade of Zen-green that I imagined, the halls and living room are a soft, beige neutral called Sand Pebble, and the kitchen is exactly the red-purple-cranberry that I planned. Only my bedroom, which turned out to be Advanced Uber Periwinkle instead of Soft Lilac Dream has given me any pause. But I'm getting used to it.

There is a lot of action at the house and in my life, action that is really accomplishment disguised as messiness. As Abrahamson and Freeman point out in their book, systems are often messy simply because "they lack one specific type of order, even though other forms are present in abundance." Certainly that is the truth with my life right now--the "one specific type of order" is certainly lacking, but there are plenty of little tiny systems being squared away at 1510 Donovan. Despite the messiness around me and inside my head, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. And if you drive by, you can see it shining.

The Rainbow Connection

Now that the drywall has been hung, taped, sanded, and textured, I finally get to make some fun decisions about aesthetics instead of structure. Bored with rafter tails and railings, I'm ready to move on to the stuff that'll make the place look real purty.

I began with the patient, funny, and helpful Ann M. at Village Lighting, logging about five hours with her selecting lights and a doorbell. Most of the rooms and spaces have recessed lighting, but the dining area called for a decorative fixture, and the seven-foot island in the kitchen needed illumination, as well. I'm satisfied that the choices we made will be enhancements, rather than distractions, and I'm grudgingly pleased to have been dissuaded from purchasing this 40-votive "candelier" for the master bedroom. (As Ann and I discussed, by the time I finished lighting all the candles, anyone I was attempting to seduce would probably have fallen asleep anyway).

Besides lighting, the place is going to need some color, and I've wavered from my original plan to paint everything "warm neutral" (of which there are oh, about 867,459 varieties) and use some coloration in the rooms. Right now, the whole place is WHITE WHITE WHITE and it's not a flattering shade for either the house or its occupant(s). The place looks like a set from Grey's Anatomy, only without the added horror of a whiney Ellen Pompeo Eyore-ing about how Sheetrock makes her hair look straggly.

The kitchen cabinets are maple and the granite will be black, so I've (almost) chosen a rich red color for the walls. Red dye, or Color Additive E120, that tints everything from lipstick to Lexuses, comes form the blood of the cochineal insect, which is bred on and harvested from the broad, flat leaves of the prickly pear cactus. I like its dramatic genesis and its warmth, plus it will match the nipple of the nearly-naked woman on the painting I plan to hang in the kitchen. In her book Color: A Natural History of the Palette, Victoria Finlay writes of red's historical symbolic significance, "for many cultures, red is both death and life...red is anger, it is fire, it is the stormy feelings of the hearth, it is love, it is power." It makes sense for my house, then, where the kitchen is the planned center of the place--the heart, if you will--to have that room be red. Or Cranberry Craze. Or Salsa Splash. Or Blood of Bug. Or whatever.

Remember the Friends episode where Monica gushes about turning Rachel's former bedroom into a guest room with mints on the pillow? I have the same dream for the back bedroom, if only so I can have one room that remains pristine and animal-hair free. I've selected about 40 different manifestations of sage green, and hope to narrow it down to one before next Monday, when the painter plans to start. I'm going for a cool, calming, uncluttered space for guests to rest, which will be much more convenient when I actually have an extra bed for them. But never mind that for now--I have a mini Zen garden and fountain, a couple of soothing candles (Jan's Serenity, anyone?) and some paint. Or an idea of paint. What is more relaxing, after all, than nothingness?

The front bedroom, the one with the nook under the stairs where I'll have a little bed built in for the World's Cutest Nephew, will be pale yellow, assuming that I can find a pale yellow that actually turns out to be both pale and yellow once it hits the wall. The last time I used yellow, it looked like Colonel Mustard did it in the bedroom with a paintbrush. Finally, my bedroom upstairs will be some variation of pale lavender in order to match my seventeen purple throw pillows.

Underfoot, where it now looks like a cocaine factory exploded thanks to the drywall dust, I'm going to have a combination of oak (living room, kitchen, and hallway); carpet (stairs, bedrooms, study) and slate (entry, bathrooms). Art M. is patiently awaiting my decisions, so that he can begin on April 28th (OMG!), and I hope to placate him soon. James and I compared the oaks offered to the pine in the ceiling and came up with a combo that is complementary without being, as my friend Jill says, "too matchy-matchy." My main criteria for carpet is that it be spill-uponable, from both an easy-to-clean sense and a whoops-hide-the-sloshy-red-wine sense. I like the stuff I've chosen, and if blogs were touch-and feel, I'd show it too you now. But they're not, so I guess you'll just have to stop by and squish your toes in it yourself. Very, very soon...

Size Does Matter

“The splendor of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not rob the little violet of its scent, nor the daisy of its simple charm. If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness.” -Therese of Lisieux.

The advent of spring is all about minutia—almost imperceptible changes that transform brown to green, bare to lush, dark to light, and gray rainy days to slightly less rainy, slightly less gray days. Observers of natural phenomenon engage in a careful study and recording of the gradual transition between seasons, noting the tiny changes on phenology checklists. Things like “rhubarb ready to harvest,” “robins return,” and “squirrel activity increases” are among the harbingers of spring signaling us that it’s time to put away the space heater and figure out which %^$&# storage unit is hiding the oscillating floor fan.

At 1510 17th, tiny hints of the season are appearing around the perimeter, in places where the ground isn’t covered by straw and cast-off boards. On the chestnut tree that will eventually shade the southeast corner of the yard, there are new buds; tiny purple flowers (liriope muscari for you floriculturists out there) are poking up next to the porti-potti (please god don’t let it be leaking); and the grass on the Donovan-side strip is rising to annoy-the-neighbors heights. Birds are chirping in the branches of the remaining alders, worms are squiggling underfoot, etc, etc, blah blah blah.

Inside the home, which you can see peeking through the still-bare branches of the trees, minutia is also being attended to. Now that the exterior is nearly done (with a few minor exceptions, such as decking and paint), details on the inside are demanding attention—mostly mine. Since I bounce hourly between impulsivity (book-buying, snack foods, web-surfing) and procrastination (flossing, exercising, decision-making), I’ve managed to put off selecting interior and exterior paint, carpets, hardwood and slate; kitchen countertops, dishwasher, oven, and microwave; shower and tub tile; interior and exterior door knobs and lock sets, and a dozen other things that I’m sure will pop up like crocuses over the next few weeks.

I have no magic formula for choosing all of the intricacies that will make home livable, although a concrete list and definitive budget are obviously a start. Now all I need is to extricate my derriere from the sofa and seek out the needed items. But wait, perhaps I can stall a little…surely there is a book that I need to read in order to make the best choices. Or at least shove the regular choices a little farther into the spring…

Enter Marni Jameson. Jameson, a syndicated home design columnist, covers the tiniest details of home decorating in her new book The House Always Wins: America’s Most Trusted Home Columnist’s Guide to Creating Your (Almost) Perfect Dream House. Besides having one of the longest subtitles in recent memory, The House Always Wins is a kick-ass guide to selecting everything from carpet padding to light bulbs. Jameson is funny and honest about her own home design challenges, and her suggestions are sensible, imaginative, and for the most part, extremely useful.

Among the best advice Jameson offers are reminders about designing a home that suits your needs and lifestyle FIRST, and then focusing on making it look nice, an argument that she maintains consistently until her chapter on accessorizing, where she recommends organizing books according to their type (hardback vs. paperback) and size. Up until this point, I had a neck-ache from bobbing my head in agreement. But give me a break—books organized by anything other than topic is insane. I won't have my Calvin and Hobbes Treasury intermingling with The Illustrated Kama Sutra just because they're the same height.

Jameson's book has made me thankful, actually, that I've postponed some decisions. With her advice, I have a better grip on how to choose hardwood floors, carpet, area rugs, and colors for walls, tiles, and the like. I also have some awesome tips on window coverings and maintaining houseplants, should I ever have the money to afford either. All things said, attending to the tiny details is one of the joys of homebuilding. And life.

Catching Up Is Hard To Do

Regular blog maintenance has fallen off here at Belben’s Building Blog, due to an assortment of other activities clamoring for my attention. Thankfully, the action has died down a little and I can get back to documenting my growing homestead. I am happy to report that I survived my role as Ms. Sheena Brannigan in the BEHS musical, “Back to the 80s;” I’ve recovered (mostly) from financial woes brought about by an error at the bank; my mother has returned from the hospital with a shiny new hip, and I’ve lived through yet another change of address, leaving behind the indescribably greedy and unreasonable snots at Apex Management and the crazy neighbor next door who once woke me up at 3 a.m. screaming at his girlfriend, “You f---ing pissed on my f----ing barbeque, you f---ing b-----!!!”

Comfortably ensconced in what I hope will be my last temporary residence before the BM, I finally have some time to reflect on things like whew! I finally have a front door! instead of figuring out which cardboard box/storage unit/friend’s house contains my black skirt/hair dryer/cheese grater. Inspired possibly by my participation in the aforementioned theatrical production, I’ve been thinking lately about story-telling. A 19th century French writer named Georges Polti is credited with describing the 36 possible situations that can occur in stories, and with an OCD-esque flair, carefully explicated each one (see sidebar and links for exhaustive details). I'm fairly certain that at least half of these situations have been a part of my adventure in home-building.

Take, for example, situation #16, "Madness." In this situation, according to Polti, "Strong emotion causes powerful arousal, which leads to a loss of rational thinking...and the person loses all conscious control, effectively becoming a different person for a while." Anyone who has witnessed one of my I CAN'T MAKE ANOTHER %$#@&%$ DECISION meltdowns or my APEX PROPERTY MANAGEMENT-induced craziness can verify that this plotline runs steadily through my current world. It's occasionally accompanied by situation #34, "Remorse" and the infrequent but nevertheless gut-wrenching situation #33, "Erroneous Judgement."

Polti defines "obtaining" (situation #12) as "When one person wants another to do or provide something but the second refuses, [and] a tension arises between the people involved." Certainly all of my house-building so far has been an effort to obtain a new place to stash my self and my worldly possessions, and there is no other person involved.

My only real adversary is time. And while it sometimes feels otherwise, time is actually cooperating in my quest--the house is on-schedule. The garage floor has been poured, the corbels are nearly all in place, the siding almost done, exterior painting scheduled for Spring Break, the insulation has been installed (see photo at right of the gable in my bedroom), and soon the drywalling will be underway.

Yes there has been some situation #20, "Self-Sacrificing for an Ideal," but I've luckily escaped Disaster (#6); Fatal Imprudence (#17) and I'm not even sure I know what an Involuntary Crime of Love (#18) is.

A more fitting plotline for my project is #9, "Daring Enterprise," even though I am not "a young male who proves himself, perhaps by acts of ritual and rites of passage, as worthy of esteem and thus being allowed to belong to a higher level within the group," nor am I involved in an "adventure undertaken for the purpose of obtaining a beloved woman." Nevertheless, I feel like I've done something daring, even if the only ledge I'm hanging from is the one on the boundary between Able to Buy Groceries and Standing in Line at Food Bank.

Polti says that the Enigma (Situation #11) satisfies our need to solve puzzles, to experience a sense of completion and the reward of closure. "Resolving enigmas," writes Polti, "makes us feel clever and intellectual and hence more able to face life's other challenges." I'm hoping that I feel smarter when this is all done. I know I'll be better equipped to face challenges.

Love, Exciting and New

Every Saturday night in the late 70’s, my brother Dave and I would watch “The Love Boat” and “Fantasy Island,” two programs that featured formulaic plots, cheesy humor (in the case of The Love Boat), predictable eeriness (Fantasy Island) and the presence of B-list celebrities. In both shows, the three story arcs led to complications, minor suspense, and ultimately, resolution. The Love Boat ended with, well, love, and Fantasy Island ended with the guests having either experienced their fantasy or some permutation of it and as a result, Learning An Important Life Lesson.

Valentine’s Day approaches, with its emphasis on love and fantasies, and here, I reflect on both. First of all, building this house, despite its making me a disorganized, cranky crazy lady, has given me occasion to reflect on the things I love about the homebuilding process. God knows I need to concentrate on the positive, what with four more moves (1 more apt, two house-sitting jobs, and the Big Move—aka the BM) on the horizon.

1. I love that I have amazing friends who offer living and storage space (see my future storage space above my garage at left), and continue to not only listen to me talk about this project, but actually ask questions about it. Their deep reservoirs of patience for my talking about the house amaze me. I know people who are currently growing whole other human beings inside their bodies who talk less about what they’re doing than I do. And these same people often ask me questions about MY venture. Wow.

2. I love that I have a builder who is conscientiousness and quality-obsessed, not because he gains from it, but because that’s just he way he lives. James is, of course, creating a signature product that will help him generate future business, but he never talks about that. His concern is doing the best work he can do to create the best house he can create. And he is sensitive about including me in the decisions about things, rather than assuming he automatically knows what’s best. Choices, however, are often winnowed down to Really Awesome and Really Super Awesome, so my decision-making often takes the form of two shoulders rising skyward. Choosing things for this project is like having someone offer me a large pizza loaded with cheese and delectable toppings and then asking, “Do you want that calorie-free or extra-calorie-free?”

3. I love that I live in a country where this entire project is even possible. Everybody just calm down for a minute while I get all political and American and shit. Last week, I attended a school assembly featuring guest speakers who (I wish I were making this up) told the girls in the audience that boys had a problem with their necks that made it physically impossible for them to not turn their heads when “honeys” walk by in tight pants and midriff-baring shirts. Think sexism isn’t alive and well in 2008 America? Guess again. (Here I am on the pull-down ladder to the storage space, modeling the same decidedly unsexy grey sweatshirt that I wear for most of my photoshoots at the house).

4. I love that I learn something every day, whether I want to or not. I learned from the roofers that hooks will be left in the roof for future repairers to snap their harnesses into. I learned that the “trap” in drainpipes is there not to trap wedding rings that have been dropped down the sink, but to prevent gasses from the sewer from rising into your house (apparently so we can claim to neighbors that in fact, no, our shit does not stink).

Yes, there are many days when I wish I could just Rip Van Winkle myself through the gloomy winter and the waiting and awake, refreshed and content (but without a beard) in the bedroom of my new home. I dream often of the day I won't be on a ladder, peeking out the hole in the shower that will be a skylight. It’s easy to forget that less than a year ago—just six months ago, in fact—I had an empty lot, a truckload of rotten boards that needed transport to the landfill, and a longer wait ahead of me. I love that I’m no longer waiting for the beginning, but for the end.

A Place in the Sun

Long before I purchased the lot and began the actual construction, I had a visual image of the house that I wanted—its color, general shape, and the interior layout and features that would make it a comfortable and satisfying place in which to entertain my friends, take naps, and grow old. I had effectively made a number of decisions and eliminated many options before this house existed, and contrary to the messages constantly bombarding us about MORE MORE MORE BIGGER BIGGER MORE MORE MORE, this is actually a good thing.

According to Barry Schwartz, author of The Paradox of Choice. Why Less is More: How the Culture of Abundance Robs Us of Satisfaction, the multitude of options in our culture has led not to greater happiness (hooray! I can have ANYTHING I want!) but to greater stress, anxiety, busyness and overall unhappiness (#$@%!!! Who cares about GROUT?! I could be sipping margaritas in Mexico right now instead of worrying about this…or, as mi amigo John would say after watching hours of telenovelas, Que Lastima!). “The growth of options and opportunities for choice has three, related, unfortunate effects,” Schwartz writes. “It means that decisions require more effort. It makes mistakes more likely. It makes the psychological consequences of mistakes more severe.” It makes a home builder caught in the whirlpool of decision-making want to run away to Puerto Vallarta for the weekend.

As I read Schwartz’s book, I can identify with what economists call the “tyranny of small decisions”—the sense of being overwhelmed when our options expand one by one. I’ve really tried to avoid being tyrannized in this way: I try NOT to look at just one more catalogue; I’m not obsessed with finding the best, most cost-effective, most environmentally-friendly anything. Mostly, I’m satisfied with being able to select from a limited range of products for any given situation. I’m happy with the skylight in the bathroom, the gush of winter sun streaming through the veranda doors, the big front porch, the unexpected storage nooks above the laundry closet, bathroom door, and in the front guest room.

Unfortunately, while this system works for me, I still suffer occasionally from others’ expectations. With as many options as there are for windows, doors, cabinets, tile, granite, flooring, drip guards, fascia, light switches, Trex, siding, drawer pulls, ad nauseum, I’m comfortable NOT caring about some of them. We’re so saturated with choice in this culture that we’ve started believing that every choice matters, simply because it exists. I don’t think they all matter. I’m going to have a roof over my head (see photo!), a terrific neighborhood, a beautiful view, and an array of rooms in which to read, sleep, eat, and enjoy what in some places (Mexico, for example) might be considered Una Casa Muy Grande.

Happily, said Casa (name to be revealed soon!) is coming along nicely, and thanks to Mr. Schwartz’s suggestions for reducing the negative impact of mega-options[1], I was able to make a few efficient, satisfying decisions over the weekend. Saturday, at Unmentionable Big Box Store, I stood in the bathtub aisle, aglow with the minimal options before me. Having previously decided on a whirlpool tub, my choices were immediately reduced to 5, then 3 as I eliminated the two that were too large, then 2 more as one of the 3 was out of stock, then I called James. “Apron or no apron?” I asked. “Yes,” James replied. “Yes, apron?” “Yes.” Only one of the two had an apron. To Do List, meet Mr. Check Mark.

The greeter at Costco looked at me strangely when I asked for help “loading up some toilets,” but once we established that I needed assistance purchasing and not using them, peace was restored. The decision to buy the johns at Costco was simplified by the fact that they only sell ONE model, and it’s the dual-flusher I’ve long dreamed about. I then spent an hour grocery shopping with a flat bed cart heavy with commodes, parmesan cheese, a 32-pack box of Orville Redenbacher Lite Popcorn, a box of Larabars, and an 8-pack of Healthy Choice Italian Soup (0 Weight Watchers Points!). Talk about coming full circle.

I went to Another Large Box Store to purchase the Juno soundtrack (super fun), and ended up leaving with a receipt for a French-door LG fridge, a cooktop with telescoping downdraft, a dishwasher, and Season 2 of Veronica Mars on DVD (I’m in the liner notes! Check it out!). Belben, VISA, and a cold boring Sunday are a dangerous and expensive mix. However, picking out the appliances feels like an accomplishment, as does the progress on the house, not all of which I can take credit for: the roof is done (thanks Mt. Baker Roofing!); the ventilation and heating has been mapped out (thanks, Northwest Energy Systems!); the plumbing is underway (thanks, Ideal Plumbing!) and James and John O.’s work passed recent inspection and the house is ready to wrap (thanks, City of Bellingham!)

Although the enormity and number of decisions I’m making during the home-building process has driven the meter on my cranky scale all the way to eleven a few times, I remain hopeful and thankful about the project and the process. Choice, as Barry Schwartz has pointed out, is not just an overwhelming depress-fest. It’s an opportunity, too—for learning, self-discipline, self-expression, and “to be actively and effectively engaged in the world, with profound psychological benefits,” as a Schwartz says. And most days, I take time to remember that primarily, this opportunity is a gift, even it sometimes seems to be wrapped in a thousand layers and tied with a hundred knots.

[1] See sidebar for a list.

The Ark in my Heart

Building-wise, not much has happened over winter break. James, Jen, and Evie June traveled to their homeland (West Virginia and Kentucky) for the holidays, and John O. spent a couple of lonely days on site by himself. I stopped by on an Evil-Knieval Memorial Visit with Rebecca and her three boys (ages 4, 3, and 2) and we spent 45 minutes trying to keep them from falling off the second floor onto Arlene’s house. Evan planted himself in a crawl space hatch, but other than provoking Cooper and Brandon to do the same and ending in one minor bump on the head, the visit was benign, if muddy.

Home developments that did occur over vacation were those of my own doing, as I trekked around town trying to finalize decisions. At Elements, Danny created a 3-D schematic of my kitchen, complete with a desk/mail-sorting area, dining room buffet, and an island that accommodates a 5-burner down-draft cooktop, a built-in bookcase for my library of Rachael Ray (thanks, Mom!), but alas, no space for a prep sink (sorry, Paula). I chose a simple maple shaker-style cabinet with bar handles, and while I’m sure there are reasons why I should/should not consider this/that/another option, my ulcer and I are not currently accepting commentary.

I expected the visit to the roofing place would be intolerably tedious and boring, but thanks to Tami S. at Mt. Baker Roofing, it was entirely painless. “I want black composite,” I told Tami. “Great,” she said. You can choose between Blah Blah 1 and Blah Blah 2.” “I’ll take Blah Blah 2,” I said. The end.

Also during vacation, I had to revisit the 40-pound lighting catalogues that include, among other options, a collection of fixtures by Mary-Late and Ashley Olsen and an overwhelming number of chandeliers, sconces, and flushmounts with ornate flowery enhancements (pictured is an item from the “Floradora” collection that is 38 inches wide and 64 inches high. I wish I were making that up). Since I’m not decorating a hotel for a geriatric Red Hat Club, I’ve made some simpler selections.

More than anything this break, I felt a bit like Noah. I spent a lot of time building a figurative ark-in-my-heart for an assortment of animals in need of care. I had two house-sitting jobs, one caring for Annie, a delightful feline who led me daily to the cabinet where her food was stored, rolling around as I filled her dish from a recycled yogurt container labeled “gold nuggets.” Just up the street, I looked after a rabbit with 24 names [note to self: do NOT spill bunny urine on one’s clothing ever, ever again], and I took care of my own dog for most of vacation, a responsibility that included an overnight visit to the doggy hospital for a urinary tract infection (a bargain at $1060!). Dr. Ed Sullivan (really! That’s his name!) is as compassionate, intelligent a vet as a dog-mom could hope for. Also, Dr. Ed, enjoy that next trip to Hawaii.

In the continuing saga of my relationship with Amy’s family of animals, I also spent time at Dr. Ed’s with Amy and her Bernese Mountain Dog, Copan, who suffers from a form of cancer sadly common to his breed. Copan accompanied Amy to Seattle when she was battling her own cancer, and it was hoped that a stem-cell transplant might cure Copan’s disease. It’s hard not to believe that Copan’s role in Amy’s life isn’t part of some karmic plan—he comforted her, and now she him. My dad says “animals are sponges for pain,” and while we hope that our pets don’t literally absorb our disease, there’s no denying that they recognize our struggles and are compassionate caretakers.

As my house grows, so does my animal family. Amy’s cat, Andale (on-duh-lay) has come to live with me (pictured watching LOST with me—I think it’s the episode where Sawyer loses the ping pong match). Andale’s placement alleviates Amy’s allergies, his and John’s ongoing battle for territorial dominance, and my need for feline companionship nap buddy. Happily, John and Amy are settling back in Bellingham, just in time to celebrate the 30-year anniversary of mine and Amy’s friendship and the holidays (including a Frida Kahlo Christmas Eve at the Boyle’s new home—that’s me in the middle channeling Fride through my unibrow). Fostering Andale is an honor and a joy—my sense of displacement and homelessness is assuaged knowing that I can provide a haven for another.