An Egress[1] is Not a Bird

It’s been said that a homebuilder makes about 7000 decisions in the course of the project, and given the number of new vocabulary terms I’ve learned so far, I’d say that is off by a few thousand. Fortunately, I love words, so I’m eager to add to my repertoire. Not so fortunately, many of the words I’m learning will only be useful for the next six months and after that they’ll just be clogging up brainspace that might be better dedicated to things like Scrubs re-runs and Mariners stats and fermentation.

The first word in my new dictionary is estimate. An estimate is a fake price that a business suggests it will charge for what later turns out cost twice as much. Example: “We estimate that the landscaping outside your condo will cost a couple hundred bucks.” (True cost=$551.35). An estimate can also be a delightfully optimistic but nevertheless inaccurate approximation of how long a project will take; for example, anything estimated to take one week will take 21 days; one month=three months; two months=sometime next year. Just for fun, a homebuilder can make her own estimates, too, such as “oh, it’ll take me about a day to tear down that shed on the lot,” and “I should be able to clear that pile of rotten lumber and broken bricks in about two trips to the dump.”

The folks at Cascade Joinery have kindly underestimated the cost of the complicated vaulted ceiling in my future great room, and have taught me a few new words in the process. The 24x17 space will be sheltered by a Douglas Fir tongue-and-groove ceiling supported by a king-post truss and insulated by panels called SIPS, which I’ve heard more about in recent weeks than I care to discuss. I’m not even going to mention what the “estimate” for this project is, but I will say that it involves a crane, and I know that will cost more than 6 months worth of payments on the Vanbulance.

Like the lingo of timber frame construction, with its ridge beams, collar ties, rafters, and struts, there is an entire lexicon devoted to windows, as well. The great room and master bedroom will feature double-hung windows, which according to my sources are “classic in appearance and offer excellent control of ventilation;” and clerestory windows—a high band of narrow windows; the study and other bedrooms will have casement windows, and the front door will be flanked by long vertical windows called sidelights. None of the windows will have mullions, which are grid-like lines that divide large windows into smaller ones.

Like the terms in the preceding paragraphs, most of the vocabulary I’m learning is plain and functional, unlike the impressive architectural terminology I learned in college humanities class. But unless I change my plan and build a Gothic cathedral complete with flying buttresses, the most exotic-sounding feature of my home will be the French drain that surrounds it. I do believe that almost any process can be endured as long as I try to learn something from it. Yes, I’m spending my life savings, but now I know what a silt fence is! Maybe people should get a degree when they undergo this process—an SBH, or Survived Building House degree. Surely the accumulation of this terminology is the equivalent of a few quarters at university. God knows there were semesters at WSU where I learned less.

[1] It’s the amount of space required by building codes that will allow firefighters to enter a window or a resident to escape.