I think, yet again, of that classic scene in which Coyote walks out over the edge of the cliff, never looking down until he does. And then he falls, down into the abyss. Somehow I had imagined that once we had packed up everything, and moved out of our house, and unpacked in the new house, all the stress would be over. From time to time we'd check in to see how things were going, perhaps chose between two lighting fixtures, but our end of the work would be done. I'd have to write some cheques, but that would be the extent of the stress. Wouldn't it?
We finished moving out on Sunday, and Monday Demolition Man arrived. His job would be...you're way ahead of me… to take down the kitchen and study walls. Our contractor, John, had been to my mind slightly reticent in giving a final estimate for how much the job would cost. When I'd ask, he'd explain that he'd prefer to wait till the walls were down to brick so he could see "what we were working with". John is a hugely sweet man, and our friends whose houses he renovated swear by him, so I just figured that was the normal course of things.
Wednesday I went over to pick up the mail. John greeted me cheerily, explaining that he'd been about to phone me because he had some news. "I suppose", he said, "that it could be good news or it could be bad news".
"You mean," I responded, "that if I had a whole bunch of money that I couldn't figure out how to spend, it would be good news?"
"Yes," enthusiastically, "you've got it."
John led me into the room formerly known as the kichen, and pointed up at the ceiling. There was a cross beam that even I could see had the unusual feature of ending halfway across, with nothing holding it up." John explained that when someone had renovated the bathroom in the 65 years before I owned the house, they had just cut the floorboards and supporting beam to get the plumbing in for their bathroom renovation. "I don't really know quite why your bathtub stayed up there all those years," he observed, "and the bathroom's walls aren't really supported by anything.
I asked him when the good news was going to start.
"Well, that's the good news," he said. "Your bathtub didn't fall down." I agreed that was good, though it was hardly hardly news. Fortunately neither Diana nor I ever took baths upstairs, as the basement tub had jets and a cabinet full of essential oils. And some non-essential ones too, truth to tell. John went on, "And now's the perfect time to replace your bathroom, as we'll have to take all the plumbing out anyway."
I was puzzled. "Demo man couldn't slow himself down, or what?"
"Well, the pipes are all rotten, there are no vents, the trap is nowhere near code, and when it started to leak, someone just sprayed foam around it so all the insulation is wet and moldy and has to be replaced."
While the emotional term for what I was experiencing was panic, the technical term is "reno creep". It's like "mission creep" in Iraq, in that at every moment it seems logical to extend the original goal by small increments. But in for a penny, in for a megabuck, as Stephen Harper almost says. We agreed we will have a new bathroom.
Meanwhile Diana and I had purchased new appliances, a stove, a 600 ft per minute hood for the stove, a refrigerator, a dishwasher, and a clothes washer. We don't actually wash our clothes in the kitchen, but ours had died two days before we moved out, and while there isn't, as far as I know, a term "appliance creep", there probably should be.
Once the walls came down we learned a number of things. I had always believed there was a brick wall between our house and the other half of the semi-detached. I was wrong. That meant that the furnace chimney took up more kitchen space than predicted, so our original design wouldn't work. A dog walking friend (a commercial interior design when she's not dog-walking) came up with a clever new design that saved the island that was the core of the whole kitchen renovation.
I was amazed how shabby and frail the house looked once its walls were stripped away. In some places there were huge chunks of wall missing, where John and Blair had sawn away brick to make space for new windows and doors. It was a very good house not to be living in while this was happening.
There were a lot more decisions to be made than I had realized. I learned of a new and wonderful floor covering called marmoleum, and admired the complex and intricate designs that came up when I googled it. I chose one, found a store with both one foot by three foot "click tiles" and one by one tiles, and worked out a stunning two-colour design. I took it to the marmoleum store, and showed it to the installer. He shook his head. "Won't work."
"It's tounge and groove. You've put pieces running at right angles to each other, so they won't fit."
It was one of those observations that's incredibly obvious once you've been told. I did ask the next question, which was if I designed it the right way, with all one by one pieces, how much the more installation would cost than if I just had a flat roll of one colour.
"About $8000, roughly."
I started looking though the roll patterns. Some of them are very nice. Maybe I'll print out an 8 X 10 of my original pattern, frame it, and hang it above the desk.
New features keep sneaking up, things I hadn't known were possible. A roll up screen for the upstairs balcony door. Electronically synchonized fire alarms, so that a fire in the basement will trigger alarms throughout the house. A second heating vent in the kitchen. Today our kitchen got a skylight, though that's only a temporary feature due to our upstairs bathroom no longer having a floor. But I like the 20 foot ceiling from the kitchen's point of view– it really makes the room feel spacious.
And I've had a few conversations with the nice man who manages my money, explaining that there's about to be a lot less of it for him to manage. He took it well, and has been making money miraculously appear in my bank count, at a slightly faster rate than John is making it disappear. All the new appliances have been put on my visa card, which gives me airline points. Diana and I will be able to fly far and often by the time the kitchen is done. I suppose that too is part of the good news.
But the demolition is now all done, and the construction is about to start. We still need to select cabinets, tiles for the bathroom, and make several thousand other decisions. (Do we want knobs on our cupboards so we can open them? On the whole, I think we do. But apparently we have to then decide which knobs. So maybe not.)
But there won't be any new surprises now, and it will all be simple. I tell myself that, and keep walking onwards, being very careful not to look down.