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.

Ho Ho Home for the Holidays

The home-building process has begun to seem a lot like being pregnant (I imagine), what with all of the anticipation and questions, although thank god, no one tries to rub my belly or tell me about their episiotomy. But much like a pregnant belly signals to the world that a woman is a walking repository for horror stories and advice, outing myself as a homebuilder apparently signals to the world that I need/want advice. And like the suggestions collected by my fertilized friends (hi Jessica!), some of the proffered wisdom is useful, some of it useless, and some just bizarre.

Advice That Doesn’t Apply

So far, my favorite piece of advice came from a former neighbor, a retired gentleman who advised me, “Watch your contractor like a hawk!” and then proceeded to enumerate the many errors his own contractor made. “He would have put a window in the wrong room if my wife hadn’t been onsite everyday!” I’m sure the builder really appreciated the supervision. I worry that James has to steel himself for my every-other-afternoon drive-bys, and the idea of watching him like a hawk is absurd. He's one of the most meticulous, conscientiousness people I know, and it’s hard to imagine him putting a nail out of place, let alone a whole window.

Advice That Isn’t Needed

I think I’ve been spoiled by James’ and Jon O’s tidiness, because people are always telling me to make sure my contractor keeps the site clean, and I pretty much have no idea what they’re talking about. The lumber is always neatly stacked and the scrap pile contained when I stop by. The only garbage I’ve seen is neatly secured in regularly-emptied cans on the corner of the lot. Oh yeah, that and the piles of crap that the neighbor’s dog leaves behind. I know there are job sites littered with nails, cans, wrappers, and cigarette butts. I’m thankful mine isn’t one of them.

Advice I Can’t Forget, Part I

At the Large Box Store that Shall Remain Unnamed where I went to look at appliances, I was greeted by a VERY helpful sales rep (code name: Dwight) who first words to me after learning I’m building a house were, “Can I give you a piece of advice?” How else could I respond? You might as well,” I told him. “Everyone else has.” Dwight proceeded to advise me to plan my kitchen around the appliances. Apparently, some folks build the kitchen and its cabinetry, and then try to squeeze in the electronics. Amazing how many ways there are to screw things up.
“So, how big is the pass-through between your island and your counter?” Dwight asked. “Because you want at least 30 inches. You don’t want to get everything built and then find out that you can’t open the reefer door. I assured Dwight that I had paid a professional designer thousands of dollars to create a floor plan that would, in fact, allow plenty of room for maneuvering, including opening the “reefer” door. Dwight went on to point out in exquisite detail the pros/cons/superfluities of what might have been every appliance Big Box Store had to offer until I was ready to fake a seizure in order to escape.

Advice I Can't Forget, Part II

James and Jon O have been visited at the site by a neighborhood wanderer, a long-haired fellow named Gordy who claims to be a Native American Shaman. It's not my place to question anyone's ethnic heritage or abilities associated with it, but my guess is that any visions Gordy has can be attributed to that funny, sweet, smoky smell emanating from his person. In addition to being a shaman, Gordy has also professed to being a "broker" and told James and Jon O he estimated he could sell my house and only take $250 in profit. Again, Gordy may be a "broker," but I think he has more experience brokering items that he can carry in snack-size baggies in his pocket than he does houses. Gordy hovered around the site for a few days, but has since moved on, claiming to have been adopted by the Tulalip tribe. His nuggets of real estate wisdom will have to enrich someone else's life now.

Advice I'm Actually Using
From Brubaker: leave out the wall between the upstairs hall and the study to create a more open space because it's easier to put a wall in than take one out; from Anna: put a gas bib for a BBQ on the back porch and have hot and cold water taps in/near the garage for car-washing; from everyone: put in more electrical outlets than you think you'll need, because it's much cheaper to do now than to try to add them later; from Gretchen and Sarah Susanka (the author of The Not So Big House): design a mail-sorting center in your main living area; from Paula: get rid of the skylight in the master closet or else your clothes will fade and have unsightly pale squares on them (which would totally mess up my faux fur vest).

The Hardest Advice to Follow

Many folks have urged me, sensibly to do things I'm considering NOW, as opposed to after the house is done. "If you don't do it now, you won't want to spend money on it later," is the usual refrain. This is difficult for me, due to my PhD in procrastination, but I'm trying to follow it. I know I'll never put pull-down stairs in the garage later, so it'll get done now. I'd love to save money on windows and flooring, but again, I'm hardly going to rip the place apart later, so I'm going to for the best my budget allows. I figure appliances will have to be updated later, so I'll get the best I can afford without getting kooky about it (I can live without a TV in my "reefer" door).

It's easy to get frustrated by the suggestions, the decision-making, my current housing situation, the cold weather, the muddy worksite, the long wait, but I know what an amazing opportunity I have, and how much there is to be thankful for this holiday season--a wonderful family (including adorable nephew pictured left), good friends, wonderful pets, lots and lots of books, and the chance to be here, now, living and learning with people I love. Laural reminded me not long ago, "You have a good life." And that's perhaps the best advice all: to remember that, everyday.

A Kitchen Full of Corbels

From the corner of 14th and Larrabee, I look up the hill and three blocks away, rising above the incoming fog and Arlene’s house, I see my new roofline. It’s a steep pitch, not one I’d want to be harnessed to on a rainy November afternoon, but in only days, James and John O. will begin nailing plywood to the rafters, encompassing the second floor and creating the sloping 11-foot ceilings that I hope will make the master bedroom and study seem lofty and light.

I can almost imagine joining them atop the roof, where the gabled dormers now point skyward and the corbels from James’s corbel-manufacturing operation in the kitchen are soon to be installed. In this imaginary scenario, I strap on a tool belt, crank the Indigo Girls’ “Hammer and Nail” and frame up a wall. This is, of course, an alternate universe where I’m not afraid of sharp whirling blades of metal, and where there’s no mud or sneeze-inducing sawdust. Also, there’s an on-site massage therapist, a sparkling clean powder room with fluffy towels and a flushable toilet.

I don’t mean to suggest that I think the builders’ job is so easy a cavewoman could do it—only that like many seemingly incomprehensible, complex tasks, now I’ve seen it broken down in bite-size pieces, I can imagine performing one of the steps, preferably one that doesn’t involve electricity, heights, sharp tools, or getting wet. I never thought I’d ever rip down a building, but when it came time to demolish the shed on the lot, its manageability became real when chunked up: empty the contents, rip off the doors, bust out the walls board by board, enlist strong boyfriend to shove the whole structure over, and then load up the remnants and cart ‘em off to the dump.

In education, we call this process task analysis: break the objective into parts and then teach the parts. I like the methodical, can-do nature of this approach: maybe you can’t cross a chasm in a series of small steps, but you can cross a mountain that way, and it sure as hell is the only way a house gets built. It is, I believe, the only way to do most things. My most-favorite recent read is a non-fiction compilation by Sasha Cagen called To-Do List: From Buying Milk to Finding a Soul Mate, What Our Lists Reveal about Us. For years, Cagen collected to-do lists of all sorts from people around the country, and in her book, categorizes them (relationships, work lists, goals, life-lists, etc), introducing each chapter of lists with an insightful essay before presenting the lists, each with a brief explanation from its author.

“[Lists] represent the brain on the page, in its most raw form. They are not only reflections of our mind states, they’re also often tools for action and decision making. The represent the conversations that we have with ourselves but don’t often voice to others,” Cagen writes, and I know EXACTLY what she means. I am a fanatical list maker. Mostly they’re just to-do lists, but I also list stuff that inspires, motivates, enlightens, and delights me about life. Recently I made some lists about the house-building process, and for once they have nothing to do with accumulating pay stubs or signing lengthy, notarized documents.

List #1: Music to Bruise Your Shins To: The Plywood Playlist.

This is the soundtrack that I would choose if they made a movie about building my house, although clearly one would have to be both brain-damaged and drug-addled to do that.

“Little Room”—The White Stripes. Short, thumping, wickedly cool song about being in your little room, thinking up shit. I’m going to have lots of little rooms, and I’m going to think in every single one of them.

“Hammer and Nail”—Indigo Girls. Besides the obvious, this is just a really cool song about getting up and getting ‘er done.

“My Song”—Brandi Carlile. Brandi kicks ass, and this is an ass-kicking song. It makes me feel powerful, daring, and paradoxically calm about making big decisions and committing huge quantities of money.

"Right Moves”—Josh Ritter. Am I making 'em?

“Keep Off the Grass”—Todd Snider. I don’t have any grass, just mud, straw, spauls, and piles of crap from the neighbor’s dog, but that isn’t the point of Snider’s song, which is basically that we should just do what we want regardless of the advice/instructions people are giving us about how to live or where to put the laundry room.

“She Don’t Like Roses”—Christine Kane. A sweet song about a woman’s bedroom and the smell of lavender in her home. Pretty much the opposite of Snider’s entire portfolio.

List #2: Mrs. Winchester on Prozac, a.k.a. Stuff I’m Going to Do When I Move In

1. I’m going to make sure my guest room is really mellow and calming, like one of those rooms you go into at the Chrysalis to get a massage—you know, a little fountain, soothing music, lots of flowing fabrics, and the scent of rosemary.

2. I’m installing a swing on the beam between the kitchen and the living room, I don’t care how weird my mother thinks it is, and then I’m piling up all my throw pillows and soft stuff, and I’m going to invite my willing friends over to swing into them and take ten years off their lives. (So in the coming months, if I ask if you want to come over to swing, don’t take it the wrong way).

3. Before I get furniture in the living/dining room, I’m going to recreate that scene from Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius where he and his little brother have sliding races down the length of their wood floor. I hope my not-so-little brother will join me.

List #3: Stuff I’m Thankful For

1. A really cool, meticulous, safety-oriented (note to Jen!) builder with a reservoir of patience for my indecision and complete lack of spatial intelligence.

2. Bellingham=bike lanes, Boundary Bay, Bikram Yoga, Ben Mann, Village Books.

3. Awesome family and friends who lend out their space for my collection of craft crap, lent their power before mine was hooked up, made my 40th birthday memorable and amazing, and support me in yet another dramatic, time-conusuming endeavor.

The last list could go on for much longer, but it seems like a good place to end for now. Plus, no one's probably too interested in my List of Favorite Paint Colors and Book Organization List: Room by Room. Suffice to say, I'm thankful for pretty much everything.

Vagabondage 101

Despite the speed at which things are progessing at 1510 17th, what with the walls and temporary electricity and all, I've finally reached the terminus of my rent-free life. The house-sitting gigs have stopped appearing, probably because word got out that I kill people's houseplants and let stuff fester in their refrigerators. It's too crappy outside to sleep in the van, even if it weren't full of boxes and the not-so-vague odor of dog. And despite many generous offers, couch surfing for the next eight or nine months sounds like a really super way to screw up some friendships (guess what? I'm not much of a conversationalist at home! I'm a secret slob! I get up at the ass-crack of dawn!) So I've decided to rent an apartment--not so that I can think Deep Thoughts and construct some National Book Award winning memoir about paint chips and subflooring, but so that I can be gross in the privacy of my own space.

It's hard not to get excited about the house, since there's progress everyday--joists, trusses, studs, and beams are organized and installed, replacing the mud and air with structure and permanence. James demonstrated the purposefulness of the kitchen windows, crouching in front of the void where the sink will be. When I was asked what he was doing--why the squatting? he said, "I was imagining about where you'll be when you wash dishes." I replicated his play-acting throughout the house: here I am greeting guests at the front door! Here I am vacuuming the bedroom! Here I am tripping down the steps from the kitchen to the living room!

I'm able to maintain a state of subdued ecstasy simply because there are so many other things to be excited about. My group of friends that's been together 30 years gathered to celebrate Amy's 2-year triumph over cancer; I'm busily planning my birthday party; I visit daily with Laural's parents, who've dwarfed the Vanbulance by stationing Eldora II in the neighborhood for their annual month-long visit; and I occupy myself, as always with good books (see sidebar), great music (Josh Ritter at the Showbox; Brandi Carlile at the Mt. Baker); a fabulous, fun boyfriend, and as always, work and work-outs. I've also been doing lots of writing and recently posed for a photo for Village Books' Community of Readers campaign--look for me and Kosha soon in the Cascadia Weekly.

My energy is truthfully devoted to the impending end of my vagabondage: this weekend I'll assume the lease on the downtown apartment of my co-worker, Pippin. My mind is busily occupied thinking about how I'm going to get my storage unit open without my entire life's possessions crashing down from the mountainous pile towering above the DO NOT STACK ABOVE THIS LINE line. The apartment is small, but I would gamble it's got at least a hundred times the square footage of the Vanbulance, with the added bonus of toilet and shower facilities. I'm also looking forward to reuniting with my pillow-top mattress, having a place to hang my clothes, and of course, a potential reunion with Stinky, The Cat Who Traveled the World, although there's a good chance that he'll continue on with his adoptive family (a.k.a. Charlie and his children) in Sedro-Woolley. Shh...don't tell, but I might adopt a cousin for him. I've been checking out the options at Whatcom Humane Society. A warm fuzzy pet would be a great addition to my new home. Also, the cat box can help me gross it up.