Moist and Hummocky

The project is moving along. Builders are showing up at the worksite (formerly known as our house) every day, and things seem to be getting done. The latest news came in the form of correspondence from our architect and contractor expressing concerns about the moisture level of our soil. It seems to be too wet in the crawl space and they wanted to bring on a geotechnical engineer to take a look at the situation. Our first question: how much will this cost?* Second question... what is a geotechnical engineer?

The soil in our area is notoriously crummy. It's adobe clay, sticky and solid, expanding when wet and contracting when it dries out. That movement can wreak havoc on a foundation. We were aware of some standing water under the house in previous winters, so we weren't too surprised that this was an issue, but still kind of a bummer nonetheless.

The engineer, Richard, analyzed the site, and sent his report with recommendations in almost no time, for which we were very grateful, on the Friday before Christmas weekend. Apparently our soil is "highly plastic and highly expansive," which explains why our doors would get stuck at certain times of the year. Furthermore, the crawl space is "moist and hummocky." I'm not sure what that means, but hummocky is now my new favorite word. The gist of his recommendations have to do with lining the crawl space, specific instructions for the foundation, depth and layering of the new concrete slab for the garage, and sloping grades around the perimeter of the house. It all sounds sensible enough. More unplanned money, but we are getting increasingly adept at rolling with the punches in that arena.

I wish I had something philosophical to say about this, but there's not much to add. While it's always more fun to spend time and money on stuff to ooh and ah over, the structural integrity of the foundation is not really an area where we can afford to skimp.

*It did not escape my attention that Richard's fee was exactly the same amount as our unattainably cool bathroom faucet (see previous post). Doh!

Everything but the Kitchen Sink

A couple of weeks ago, our contractor Mark sent us an email. "I will need all of the plumbing fixtures for all areas by 1-3-12." Okay, we got this. Mission one, choose the following:

• 4 bathroom sinks and faucets
• two shower heads
• 2 toilets
• 1 bathtub
• 1 utility sink with faucet

Oh yeah, and one extra toilet to replace one downstairs that we HATE. Well, I hate it, at least. I'm looking forward to this stage, in a way. It's nice to think about getting some shiny new things for the house, since it's mostly been a mess of lumber and concrete lately. These will be items that we can actually picture using and enjoying, as opposed to a new sewer line or concrete footing; the less we have to think about those, the better.

There's no need to shop for a kitchen sink, since we have one already. We remodeled our kitchen and bathroom exactly 9 years ago, when Jacob was 2 and Gil was just a blip on the ultrasound. Being pregnant during a remodel has its advantages; it presented us with a built-in deadline, plus I had no qualms whatsoever about bursting into tears at any moment during conversations with our contractor. We managed to move back into our house in time for Gil to arrive, though there were some finishing touches to complete. I had tilers come in to grout our bathroom 8 days after his birth, on the morning of his circumcision. ("just be done early," I hissed). Back then it was hard to imagine wanting to go through this process again [remodeling, not pregnancy], though we are quite happy with the results (in both cases).

I no longer have an excuse for being emotional, and firm deadlines are helpful for two seasoned procrastinators like us. We've been reading reviews of various fixtures and soliciting opinions from friends and family who have remodeled recently. Yesterday, we checked out the plumbing store where we got our fixtures 9 years ago. When we arrived, highest on my priorities was to find a working restroom amid a showroom enticingly full of toilets and sinks (surprisingly more difficult than one would think). When I got back, David was talking to a salesman who was describing the difference between Grohe, Hansgrohe, Gretelgrohe, Woodsmangrohe, and Kohler. There is also a mysterious division of one of the Grohe lines called Axor which I think is German for "cool but completely unaffordable." Of course, that's where we found the one faucet that both of us liked (single temperature dial, modern design, not too skinny, not too clunky). There was even a headshot of the designer next to the fixture, along with a photo of her personal bathroom, which looked a bit like an office with two bathtubs. The bad news? $1200 each. David's jaw dropped, and we quickly moved on. We did find some interesting ones shaped like dragons and dolphins, which we know our boys would have chosen on the spot.

In short, the first foray into plumbing fixtures was not terribly productive, though at least we're thinking about what we like and don't like. We managed to peruse countertops at another place down the

street (next on our list anyway). We've been looking for alternatives to the ubiquitous granite, and settled on a brand of recycled glass and concrete surface called Icestone. Our first choice of colors (one for each bathroom) is pictured at right. There's another brand called Vetrazzo that looked good online, but seemed a little too flashy in the showroom. One decision down. We'll tackle the controversial single or dual flush question next time around.

Brace Yourself

It's still early in the process, but it looks like we've arrived at the next phase of our remodel. The drywall and interior beams have come down, rooms that are to be protected will be boarded up, and the garage is kaput. So far, removal of structures is the only tangible evidence of progress. The next step is reinforcing the foundation, which involves cutting out parts of the floor in selected spots to create extra space where concrete can be poured. This will shore up the base of the house to allow it to shoulder the burden of a second story. Not unlike the old adage "what goes up must come down," when building up, one first has to go down. We were told that we are lucky our house has a crawl space, as opposed to a slab foundation, because it simplifies the process somewhat. As one of the builders told me, they would have had to first cut through the slab of concrete to achieve the same purpose.

When this was described to me, I had initially pictured them digging little prairie dog burrows here and there and stuffing (packing? pouring?) some hard material down there to make it steady. What I actually saw were enormous rectangular gaps in the floor space with deep trenches underneath and what appeared to be well-lit tunnels peering up from gaping holes in the floors. There could have been half a dozen Chilean miners down there for all I could tell.

I think there must be some apt metaphor for reinforcing the foundations of our now nearly unrecognizable house, and the internal process that we are experiencing right now. We are trying to manage all the paperwork, budgets, decisions, and unexpected twists and turns (with a few

early and unpleasant speed bumps along the way).

At the same time, our kids have to adjust to a new environment, changes in their routine, and their distracted/stressed out parents. For our part, David and I are trying like crazy to stay sane (how's that for ironic), managing to get to work and take care of everyday stuff with this project constantly at the back of our minds. Clearly, we need to dig deep and brace ourselves in preparation for the inevitable challenges to come. Just like the house.

Talk the Talk

Sometimes I like to ask friends what their superpower is. Mine, I know, is the ability to peel an orange and end up with one continuous rind. Not so impressive, but there it is. My son, Gil used to win every game of War he played (maybe superpowers expire). Others have more socially enviable aptitude, such as community builder superhero, or do-everything-and-make-it-look-easy hero (I hate them, personally).

Possibly the best superpower of all is the ability to unexpectedly communicate in another language, revealing a razor sharp competency beneath an unassuming exterior. In one of my favorite scenes from one of my favorite movies, a timid-appearing Jewish guy walks through a train station in Berlin, being trailed menacingly by a bunch of neonazi punks. He ignores them as they get closer and closer... suddenly they begin, as skinheads do, to beat up his companion's friends. He whirls around, kicks some ass, and snarls in surprisingly fluent German [I'm paraphrasing] "Go to hell motherfuckers!" Booyah. Oh yeah, and he's Mossad too. Awesome.

When we first met our architect Jessica, finding a superhero was not foremost on our minds. Mainly we were looking for creativity and functionality, someone who could help us translate our needs and ideas into feasible plans. In fact, one of the selling points she gave when we initially interviewed her was her ability to listen. She did listen, and ultimately delivered a design that we love, despite the limitations of square footage and physics. It was a fun process, and we looked forward to our meetings with Jess as the plans and ideas evolved. I learned new terms such as soffit and fascia, and even picked up a few skills. Who knew that all you need to draw a toilet is a rectangle and a circle? Amazing. The best thing was that she seemed so normal, a mom with two young boys, fun to chat with, and genuinely nice.

Her superpowers, however, were not immediately apparent, until we sat together in a city planning meeting discussing roof lines and aesthetics; without warning she suddenly code-switched and spoke with the planners like an expert. The review board pretended to be friendly, but then lunged like cobras: "The PROBLEM with the gidniff is that it's too snorky. It needs to be more mostrilesque." She countered coolly, "these gidniffs are burukated in such a way that the oopside bunderhosts geminally." Ahhh. said the planners. "good point." Booyah. David and I glanced at each other in bewilderment and relief. She can talk the talk! The same thing followed in exchanges with structural engineers, contractors, city workers and green consultants. She knew what they were talking about, too!

Like any self-respecting superhero, Jessica could also walk the walk, as it turned out. She's crawled into our crawl space to measure the spacing of the supports, and scaled our roof in a single bound, to determine the best views for our second story windows . Our experienced contractor has remarked more than once that Jess' plans are the most detailed he's ever seen. So here's to you, Jessica. Our gidniffs will forever be burukated, and we thank you.

New Digs

A lot has happened since I last posted. During early November, when ideally, our efforts should have been focused on enjoying leftover Halloween candy, we were in serious crunch time (and not the delicious Nestle variety). One vanload of boxes turned into 4, then 9, then we lost track in our fog of moving. After exhaustive and exhausting excavations were undertaken in our house, a sort of archaeological dig site emerged. We found evidence of of optimistic ventures long since abandoned... exhibit A: orchid fertilizer. Exhibit B: ice cream maker. Some sort of hot oil hair treatment from the 90s. And there were so many baby pictures! Diapers were discovered, embarrassingly enough, in our earthquake preparedness box- our children will be celebrating their 9th and 11th birthdays soon. We even uncovered the mixed tape that David gave me on our third date, though I thought it was lost forever.

Gradually, our things were moved, sold, donated or tossed. We were down to our last 1.4% or so, those lingering papers in the office space, the cans of paint in the garage, a stray bowl or two in the kitchen. We thought we were doing pretty well. In the meantime, our contractor Mark had been shaking his head ("do they get it?" he must have been thinking, "everything needs to be OUT").

And so the demo began. It's fascinating how those doors that allowed our privacy, slammed occasionally, and walls that defined the spaces of our house could come down so quickly, leaving an empty cube with no discernible features. Interestingly enough, the kids remarked how small the house looked after the walls came down. I would have expected the opposite. Perhaps it was the contours and corners, what we had thought of as limitations, these were what that breathed life into the space in the first place. Doors that close can also open. So now, at long last, we are settled in our new digs, getting used to being in one house again. The adventure continues.

Things Fall Apart

"This place is a wreck!" says my 8 year old son. Ouch. These past few weeks, David and I have been readying the house for our imminent move and remodel while working full time and taking care of our two kids. The results are pretty much what one would expect, which is to say, just shy of disaster. The low hanging fruits of packing, such as books and knicknacks, have filled so many boxes that we are running out of energy and cardboard for the stuff we really will need over the next six months.

The house seems to sense that something is brewing, and has responded accordingly; cracks in the drywall have widened, one of our bedroom doors won't close anymore, and two weeks ago, out of nowhere, the hood above our stove somehow dropped 3 inches, leaving a gap between it and the cabinet above. We've been propping it up with bits of particle board. Clothes fall out of closets and dressers and don't manage to find their way back. David and I are also starting to show outward signs of wear and tear, as nutrition and exercise fall with a clunk by the wayside.

According to a recent report by the Working Mothers Institute, something like 55% of working moms report feeling more guilty about the state of their house, than about not spending enough time with their kids (to be fair, according to the same study, 44% of stay-at-home moms report guilt about the untidiness of their homes). In any case, I can relate to this. I still internalize the appearance of the house as my domain, regardless of what I contribute in other ways. I judge myself, and I feel judged, too. I'm that terrible combination of a fundamentally messy person who likes things to be neat.

In my more zen-like moments, I'm trying to treat this as an exercise in letting go; everyone is healthy and mostly happy. Is it REALLY important that we can't see our countertops anymore? We know they're there, right? Hey, don't judge me!

Temporary Structures

This blog marks the official start of our remodeling project, big changes for our small house that has been home for the last 12 years. But it's also about how home and hearth fit into our lives. It's about how, if we are lucky, we can control and improve our surroundings to make our existence more comfortable. It's also about finding peace with the things that we cannot control. This is why, as we embark on this journey, there is nothing yet to say about contractors, architects, city permits, dual flush toilets, light fixtures, or any of the maddening delays that invariably accompany any home improvement project. These should all come later; stay posted.

Last week ended the Jewish festival of Sukkot. The tradition holds that Jews build a sort of hut to "dwell" in; most families interpret this as a place for social gatherings and eating meals. The idea of the holiday is to reenact the type of fragile dwellings that the Israelites lived in during 40 years of wandering in the desert. The rules are very specific; it must be a temporary structure. We have been building a sukkah in our backyard for the last 6 years, and each time we make it increasingly comfortable and homey with lights and furniture and even a durable carpet. My sons will tell you that they look forward to Sukkot every year, and in fact we all do. When everyone gathers in the sukkah it's like a collective sigh of relaxation; at dinner the stress and distractions of the day seem to dissipate and we can truly enjoy the food, fresh air, and each other in the moment (along with occasional rumbling of the train tracks a few blocks away).

This year, on the last night of Sukkot, I learned that an old friend, Gary, had died suddenly and unexpectedly of a brain aneurysm. We had been close for a time in high school, and I had last seen him in college, when he was in town performing with a theater group. We reconnected on Facebook, and exchanged a few messages over the last years about our mutual lives, families, and careers. He was the same smart, warm and funny guy I remembered, and his posts frequently made me smile or laugh out loud. Though we were no longer close, it's strange how I miss him now, and am so shaken at his death, at the age of 42, the "secret to life, the universe and everything" as he posted on Facebook on his birthday. My oldest son recently finished reading Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series and seeing the books on our coffee table is another reminder of Gary's, and, honestly, my own mortality, at the same tender age.

The point of this is that all structures, however expensive and beautifully designed, are just backdrops to our temporary presence on this earth. In our search for more space, better light, and an improved version of what we already have, I need to stay mindful of this, and how fortunate we are to be able to pursue this project at all.

This morning we started taking down the sukkah and almost without skipping a beat, assembling cardboard boxes for our next move into another temporary structure (our new rental house a few blocks away). For the next few months, we will be immersed in the rebuilding of our old house, while balancing life, parenting and work, and hopefully keeping it all in perspective.