Stung!

I waltzed around bragging for 27 years that I had not been stung by a bee for 27 years. I am uproud of the pride with which I did this, because practically the next week, a bee flew into my bike helmet and stung me on the ear. And just when I thought it was safe to go back to my bee-boasting, I stood on my lot yesterday chatting with James, felt a pinch on the back of my knee, squished the pincher with a reflexive snap, and spent the next four hours trying to ease the sting with a combination of arnica gel and Cabernet-Sauvignon.


Not so easily alleviated the sting issued by the neighborhood anti-welcome wagon brigade, a committee of two who took it upon themselves to visit James while he was knee-deep in rebar and inform him, in great detail, how sad it is that this new house is taking the place of the lovely, green, empty lot that they evidently thought of as their own little private slice of weed-infested Eden. Never mind that this project is 1) James’s first ever lead construction project; 2) my future home and the first house I’ve established on my own, and 3) the culmination of the talents, plans, and dreams of half dozen people. One woman’s idyll is another’s eyesore, apparently.

To be fair, things aren’t so pretty right now at 1510 17th, unless your idea of “pretty” is a hole in the ground, a silt fence, piles of dirt, yards of rebar, foundation forms, and a mishmash of cryptic neon paint markings, string, buckets, and junk (including this little red piece of crap wheelbarrow that someone just wheeled over and left on the property a couple weeks ago). In the eyes of this beholder, it goes way beyond pretty, all the way to full-on smoking hot. Jessica Alba hot. George Clooney hot. Matthew McConaughey-naked-on-the-beach hot. I’ve never seen so beautiful a pile of dirt and its accompanying hole in my life. I think you’ll agree, even if certain cranky neighbors whose window-crack views of the bay may or may not be obscured by my house don’t.

The hole, in all its glory (hee hee), is gradually disappearing, and the alleged view-blocking about to begin. I returned home yesterday to find the street between Larrabee and Donovan clogged with equipment—trucks and trailers, a cement mixer and a pumper. I parked and disembarked the Vanbulance, clapped my hands, and ran across the street in my school clothes to watch as the footings were poured. I destroyed my nylons and got my pumps dirty, but it was totally worth it to watch as the foundation of my future home began to take shape. The event wasn’t even ruined when I stood near a neighbor who was watching the pour and said to his four-year-old daughter, “These big machines are really noisy, huh?” and she replied, “Yeah. This is what we have to listen to ALL day.”

Across the street, my less-amnst-encumbered and more welcoming neighbors, the ones providing me with a home base(ment), a mailing address, and a place to store my voluminous collection of rubber stamps and crafting supplies, celebrated the progress with smiles and excitment. "It's not just negative space now," Tom said, referring to the disappearing hole. "It's a positive one!." And I thought, yeah, it is. Despite the bees...and the b-words.

My Name is Matt Foley

A confession: since last writing, I have unfortunately formed an opinion about toilets. After committing myself to Just Not Caring about some issues of the homebuilding process, I’ve had the good fortune to be homeless(ish) and shacking up in an assortment of other people’s houses while they go places like Michigan, New Zealand, Rome, and Turkey.

Fun part of house-sitting: new and exciting liquor cabinets! affectionate pets! CD/DVD libraries! Not-as-fun part of house-sitting: alarm systems. Quirky light switches. Canoe-shaped futon beds (a.k.a. “canutons”). Low water pressure. In a previous life, the one where I owned a home and a pillow-topped mattress of my own and a toilet that (mostly) flushed with great vigor, I could take a shower in less than five minutes.

I don’t need my new house to be equipped with the Turdbuster Ten Thousand™, but I’m not going to be reducing my environmental footprint in the bathroom. I’ll bicycle to the Co-op for recycled sponges and organic locally grown tomatillos, but I am NOT flushing three times for every number two, and I won’t take a shower that requires me to wash my hair one strand at a time under a lethargic, lukewarm trickle.

That isn’t going to be so much of an issue for the next week, since I’m between house-sitting jobs and will be living in a van down by the river. Seriously, the Vanbulance is stuffed with every ridiculous thing I seem to think I need to cart from one temporary housing situation to another, including a dog, a mountain bike, seasons 1 and 2 of The Office, a giant suitcase with a broken zipper, a box of craft projects, a basket full of shoes, a jockstrap and a pair of sliding shorts (not mine), and 3 bags of non-perishable groceries.

Luckily, I’m able to station Vivian across the street from the construction site, plug in to Laural and Tom’s house, and keep a close eye out for any progress at 1510 17th Street. Exciting new development #1 was the delivery of the porti-potti on Wednesday (no flushing issues there) and then, early Thursday morning, the rumbling arrival of the excavator.

Emerson said that you should “write it on in your heart that every day is the best day of the year,” and I embrace his enthusiasm, but let’s face it, realistically, some days are way better than others. Thursday was definitely one of those days. At nine-thirtyish the crew arrived—Ron and Chris with their earth mover, and James with his safari sun hat, his blueprints, and the building permit neatly encased in a plastic envelope.

Across the street, Noah prepared an address sign to help future subcontractors and curious friends, and Dana and I tripped to Farnandia to inform Cooper, Evan, and Brandon that the big rigs had arrived, and we trouped back up the alley to set up a viewing gallery for the show. The lineup was impressive, and as the hole got bigger, so did the crowd. If I’d known fifteen years ago what a man-magnet an excavator is, I would’ve driven one around instead of spending all that money on grooming supplies and acid-washed jeans.

The day soon evolved into Testicle Festival 2007, with 9-10 men and boys watching as stumps were plucked and earth moved. The only man not impressed with the events was one of the neighbors, who seemed a little miffed that my house is going to block his negligible quasi-view. If he wants a better view, he might start by getting rid of the broken-down mini-van full of crap that’s been lodged in front of his house since 2001.

Excavation went about as expected: we didn’t unearth any ancient Indian burial grounds or underground springs or beehives or anything. The digger did collide with a sizeable chunk of rock in the area that will be my living room, so thanks to Planet Granite, there will only be two steps down from the kitchen instead of three. I think I can live with that. In fact, at this point, living as I am in a cramped van that smells like dirty shoes and dog, I’m freakin thrilled.

Entry Systems and Exit Strategies

“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.

I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Condiments

Of all the not-so-brilliant ideas I’ve had, this one might be might not-so-brilliantest: in the midst of packing, I decide that a great way to get rid of my extra baking supplies would be to do some cooking in between lifting heavy boxes of MISC and FRAGILE. It’s nearly 90 degrees outside, I’m sweating from the exertion of carrying my tiara collection to the garage, and I decide to heat the oven to 450 and bake 2 coffee cakes, two dozen muffins, and strawberry shortcakes for Charlie’s baseball team.

Aside from the obvious, this was an absurd plan for other reasons. Of course every recipe required at least one item that I didn’t have, so on top of greasing pans and whisking eggs into oil, I had to schlep over to the store to acquire some ingredient that I wouldn’t use all of. My muffin tins and cake pans were packed, so I had to buy disposable aluminum ones. I was one egg shy of a coffee cake, had no milk, needed a bottle of almond extract, and spilled my last two teaspoons of vanilla. All just to avoid packing a box of biscuit mix and a pound of flour. Thank god I learned my lesson before deciding to use up the remnants of 47 different condiments lining my fridge door. I don’t even know what Spicy Tahitian Baja Tomatillo Marinade is.

When finished, I had a dozen dirty bowls and utensils that now not only had to be packed, but cleaned as well, and my kitchen counter, floor, and stovetop were coated with a sticky batter that could probably hold 747s together. Also, the muffins totally sucked. If you’re ever thinking, “Gee, my mouth feels overly moist and saliva-enhanced. I think I’ll dry it out with some surgical gauze and a cotton ball,” STOP RIGHT THERE. Call me and you can have my dry, flavorless “carrot cake” muffins. I also think they might be useful for absorbing wet spills, and possibly as doorstops (I call them Muffin Stops).

In addition to the baking, for some bizarre reason, I also decided this that it I should get a head start on my homemade Christmas gifts (!?!?), so I’ve been copying photos and organizing ideas for a handmade book for my nephew, who likes to read (see photo). Charlie and I are training for a triathlon, I’m learning to keep score for baseball (and therefore, watching Mariners games almost nightly to practice my F7s and BBs and 5-4-3s), I have the details of three and a half house-sitting jobs to manage, an all-school book read to organize, and a column to write for Writers on the Rise.

Plus there's this whole other "new house in progress" business. I've got to select locations for every outlet, light switch, and fixture in the new house, choose toilets (dual-flush or standard? DoI need this "one-of-a-kind life-enhancing bath product" "Washlet" feature?), meet with James occasionally to talk about subcontractors and examine things like sewer drain access. Also, since my permit application was submitted, I've begun receiving mysterious advertisements from businesses offering everything from new furniture to on-site sanitation facilities. NEW HOUSE?! YOU'LL NEED TOILET PAPER! CHECK OUT OUR SELECTION OF BRAND-NAME TISSUES--EXQUISITE QUALITY AT AFFORDABLE PRICES! WE CARRY ONlY THE SOFTEST, MOST ASS-FRIENDLY PRODUCTS!

Multi-tasking? I’ve got a PhD.

Thus, the REAL reason I’ve fended off offers to help with the packing—I don’t want to reveal what’s really going on over here—the baking, scrapbooking, and boxing interrupted by periods of napping, spectating, and the occasional trip to Lake Padden for a swim and a dog-dunk. NONE OF IT in any particular order. “Oh, Belben, you’re so random-abstract!” my psychologically-minded friends might exclaim. But the truth is, I’m not. I’m one of the most linear left-brainers on my alphabetized list of linear left-brainers. I just have a lot of lines going at any given time, and they’re aimed in a hundred different directions. Right now, one leads to Discovery Park Mini-Storage, one to Goodwill, one to the Dumpster, and the others? They lead, in loop-de-loops and curlicues, into the future.

Two Weeks and a Couple of Three-Day Follow-Ups

I’ve spent a lot of time at the liquor store this week, and not just because it’s within walking distance and I have hours of unsupervised time on my hands. It’s because they have good product at the WSLCB—and it comes in sturdy cardboard boxes that are free for the taking. This is my focus now—find good boxes, accumulate newspaper, pack everything I won’t need for the next six to eight (?) months and stash it wherever I can. Which, sadly, amounts to quite a bit of stuff, begging the question, if I can live without it for the next half a year, why not just live without it for good?

Why, indeed! Because a life without a squeezable squeaky nun, a glow-in-the-dark Virgin Mary and a collection of vintage perfumes from the late 80’s would not be a life worth living. Seriously, though, how many times have I moved (do NOT answer that, Mom) and thought to myself, Why on Earth do I own all of this shit?! I have one bed, but 11 sets of sheets. I have two tables (dining, coffee) and (I’m not making this up) I own 17 vases. A couple hundred rubber stamps, 337 CDs, 3 vacuum cleaners, a set of South Park finger-puppets, a collection of tiaras, and—surprise!—a truckload of books, including an entire Xerox box full of what can only be categorized as “death books.”

If I wanted to dispossess myself of my unnecessaries, all I need to do is station them on the sidewalk in front on my house, without even a sign indicating FREE, because apparently, placing items on the edge of one’s property is universal for TAKE ME. This was my experience with the cord of wood I stacked at the perimeter of 1510 17th Street after the woodcutters chopped and chipped an alder, chestnut, and assorted shrubbery on my lot. At least now I don’t have to worry about giving all that quality firewood to my friends. Thanks, thieves!

As I watched the tree people clear the building site, a few curious neighbors stopped by. Cooper, Brandon, and Evan were fascinated by the machinery. Arlene, as welcoming and friendly as ever, reassured me that the noise was no bother, as she’d been away on her morning walk to the Y. Only one woman had anything dream-crushing to say, commenting, “It’s so sad to lose a vacant lot…I didn’t even know the land was for sale.” My reply, that she would be getting a really cool neighbor in exchange, didn’t seem to console her. Evidently, she’s the glass-is-half-empty sort.

Emptiness surrounds me—my closets and cupboards, bookshelves and bathrooms are slowly being drained of things I can live without, and my lot is nearly void. But my life is full—of baseball games, bicycle rides, swims at Lake Padden, friends to have fun with, and best of all, it’s full of anticipation. I can’t think of anything more intoxicating.

The Tattooed Toddler: A Solstice Story

Ummm…an apology. If you or someone you love lives anywhere within a six block radius of my (current) home and were awakened at 7:45 a-freaking-m on the first day of summer, I humbly beg your forgiveness. That was me in the parking lot at 12th Street Village with the blaring car alarm and the string of expletives. Because, apparently as a cosmic rule, one’s anti-theft system, the one they haven’t learned how to deactivate, is guaranteed to go off in the early morning when one is late for a two-day babysitting gig for friends who expect to catch a crowded ferry to the nether-regions of Canada.

Unable to operate the Vanbulance, I hitched a ride to the home of my friends Ryan (4) and Katie (2 ½) for a faux-parenting stint that included Sensational Toddlers, where I learned the Hello Song, the Hot Dog Song, the Good-bye Song, and that hands-on play “teaches children the delight and power of tactile engagement.” Or something like that. I went to Tube Time (permanently closed), McDonald’s (god forgive me), and the library for a new supply of books about lions and ducks.

I had just returned from this assortment of tiny-tot activities when two things happened. First, I unbuckled Katie from her car seat and discovered that she’d made fine use of the ballpoint pen I’d neglected to confiscate, and her arms were covered elbow to wrist with black scribbles in a Jackson-Pollack-meets-Vlad-the-Mad-Tattooist kind of way. In the midst of my laughter, I got THE CALL. “Cathy? It’s Colin. Good news.”

Good news, indeed. After the Vanbulance Incident, Blue House Toddler Time, PlayPlace, and the Ballpoint Pen Fiasco, I was ready for a little pick-me-up. “We have an offer on your condo,” Colin said. "It's solid." So, after not-so-quiet time, the three of us loaded into the van again (estimated loading time, including rounding up needed toys, carseat bucklage, and sippy-cup placement=16 minutes) and went to my condo to search for Form 17.

Unable to locate said document, we all loaded back up and headed to the real estate office for form-filling-out. That done, it was time again for chicken strips, assemblage of the Digeo puzzle (complete with placement of 3-D animals in appropriate spots), an episode The Wiggles (OMG), another dispute about who should get Alex-the-Cake-Topper-Lion, bathtime, bedtime, and (for Auntie Bleb) a beer.

I love(ish) children, and I am grateful for wonderful friends who have so boldly chosen to relinquish their sanity to the continuation of the human race. I am thankful they entrust their offspring to me for fun and diversion during this crazy-busy period in my home-selling, house-building life.

After 48 hours with two delightful, energetic toddlers, I take back every smug idea I’ve ever had that hmmm…well…if I were the mom, I would… There is no way I would be able to achieve what my mom-friends and dad-friends accomplish on an hourly basis. You people are courageous, dedicated, amazing, and I am so glad you are there to raise the next generation, because God knows, I will do something easier, like building a house.

You Take it on Faith, You Take it to Heart

"Catherine? It's James. It's 2:57 p.m. Tuesday, June 13. I've just left Bellingham City Hall. The plans for your house are officially under review."

"Now what?" I ask.

"We wait," James replies.

Except for that detail where every last penny is sucked into the whirling vortex of theoretical invisibility that is my new house, the waiting is, in fact, not necessarily the hardest part. Regardless of my hyper leg-swinging fidgety ADD-ish-ness, I pride myself on my reservoir of patience. I always carry a book. I like to walk. I don't mind a line. And, (cliche alert) the good stuff really is worth waiting for. So here's how I'm passing the time while the COB examines the plans:

1. I take care of my animals. Kosha has taken to Incredible Journeying himself from his dad's house to mine, so if you see this panting, bedraggled dog with a shit-eating grin and a filthy undercarriage anywhere between Fairhaven and H Street, let one of us know. Stinky mostly takes care of himself, but on Open House days at the condo, he has to ride around with me in the Vanbulance. Also, completely without meaning to, I've quasi-adopted Snowball, who hangs out on my porch daily. If this is your cat, or the cat of someone you know, please call me.

2. I surf the net. Currently, I'm obsessed with baby animals, so I visit http://cuteoverload.com/ every day and follow along on other assorted Blogs O' Interest. Also, I check in with my celebrities at http://www.thesuperficial.com/ and investigate important house-related stuff like the price of dual-flush toilets .

3. I make shit. Rachael Ray, step back. I recently cooked a spinach-stuffed sole, a shrimp pasta salad, and some broccoli thing. "Big deal," you might think, but that's because you didn't know me during the quesadillas-every-night years.

4. I hang out with The Most Adorable Nephew In The World. This is a blatant, unabashed excuse to include my brother's precious son here. Again, you might think, uh-huh, big deal, a baby. But in this family, Tom is THE big deal--the first baby born in like, 35 years. So the pressure is on. I'm pretty sure it won't screw him up.

In these pix, he helps me navigate the blueprints for the new house. I've explained that his guest room is the one with the under-the-stairs alcove, like the nook in my grandparents' house, but he really only seems interested in pointing at clocks and shouting "COCK!" and trying to figure out where Grandpa has hidden the chocolate. Wait till Mom and Dad won't buy him his own Camaro. Bet Aunt Cathy and her Fairhaven pad seem pretty cool then.

5. In no particular order, I also read, listen to music, go to baseball games (I'm totally not making that up! Ask Charlie!), clean house, ride around town on Ruby (my bike, not a horse), and spend way too much time earning my 1000 Schrute Bucks watching downloads of The Office. Also I take a lot of naps (no photo available, but please note the featured artwork...proof that I am, in fact, becoming my mother.)

There is no such problem as having too much time on your hands. Time is all we have, and the problem is not that it creates a barrier between the now and the not yet, but how to turn that blockade in to a bridge. The house I'm planning to share with my boyfriend, our families, and our friends is months away from being more than a vision on paper and in my head. The time between its imagining and its existence is mine to spend--with worry or whim. I'm going to go ahead and squander it gleefully.