Saturday, June 16, 2018

Not Over Till It's Over

Writing here for the first time in practically 8 months, it's a bit like starting from scratch. And honestly, I can't write in the old voice, because I'm not that person anymore. I'm a "revised" human being, cobbled together like a child's plasticene model of a functional lady. To be clear: I'm very angry. I'm whatever comes after exhausted. I'm disappointed in humanity. I'm still carrying my metaphoric boulder up my metaphoric hill only it feels real, the constant weight of moving. It's been so un-fun for so long that I can barely remember unfettered enjoyment. There's always a caveat - the goddamn project and its endless goddamn problems. (Pls. note - I hate the project with the power of a million suns but I do not hate the house or the husband. In fact, I love them both more than ever.)

Don't feel bad for me. My emerging self is amazingly functional, if mostly miserable. Things that would have thrown me into a state of utter chaos, 18-months ago - now they merely gut-punch in a momentary way. In fact, it appears I've been waiting all of my life to apply my anxiety to something truly deserving, I just didn't know it. :-)

In November, after months of being dicked around, I had no crew, no plan forward. My house was a disaster-zone. At my lowest ebb, I didn't so much speak, as squeak, shrill with disbelief. I could not imagine how things could have come to this (I did SO much fucking research) or that things could ever get better. I actually lost all imagination because it seemed like a liability. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. For the most part, I still can't. (Don't worry, I have adequate caloric intake from alcohol alone. And on the topic of honesty, you cannot go through this kind of experience without a spate of functional alcoholism.) Somehow I get my ass out of bed every morning and perform my full-spectrum modern-woman function. Somehow we've cobbled together the wherewithal, albeit in a state of shock, to get from there to here. But it's so not over.

(Subject of another post: The brick veneer on the front of the house exterior, always ugly, has decided to help us by falling off under the weight of carelessness and heavy construction. So, this job ain't done by a long shot. Next up - trashing the front porch and garden to rip off the front of the house and repoint the original brick. Also we'll need to hazmat-demolish the front/original part of the basement which, after my pipes burst this winter, is a den of mold. But, as row-house dwellers, we have to finish the hardscaping in the back yard before doing this because we need a way to leave and enter the house.)

This is the part of the story where I dwell on my husband, a mere mortal-turned-super hero whose cover is blown. He works 14 hour days, every day, running a business (where he treats everyone with respect) and GC-ing our renovation (where he also treats everyone with respect, though rarely is that sentiment returned in action). Obviously, I think he's a really cool person or I wouldn't have married him but I could not have predicted his level of competence in the face of near-disaster. I am blown-away by his efficacy and his endurance. He has spreadsheets of hundreds of columns - project plans and financial tables - which he monitors daily. He's on the phone with one trade at 7am and another at 11pm. He's constantly resolving serious issues that no one else can come up with a solution to address (even though those issues shouldn't have occurred in the first place). Eventually, I do intend to post a room-by-room inventory of changes to the house, for posterity. When you see how much we've altered, I imagine you'll think 2 things: Lord, how did he keep it all together and Lord, how much is all that shit costing. The answer to both of these things is, I have no fucking idea.

OK, I have no idea about the keeping it together. The money part I know. One simply shouldn't dwell overly. I mean, unless we start to earn more money, and I like to think this is feasible - or come into a sizeable inheritance - I'm not retiring early. But I am so incredibly fortunate. Many others would have lost everything under these circumstances. I've been given the opportunity - the choice - to spend money in this way. There's no more fairness to this than my hideous luck on the construction-front. When you spin the wheel, you get what you get. At some moment everyone has to decide whether to throw in the towel, or to double-down with investment on every level, and the essence of commitment is commitment. We are putting ourselves into this home, viscerally, dozens of times a day. We are this place - as much as everyone who has preceded us over 5 generations. And I consider those people in every choice I make.

The original owner was a municipal public servant in the early days of Toronto. The house was practically suburban in those years. He had 3 children, the youngest of whom died days before Christmas, at the age of 2 (and very probably in my home, though there's no sense of it that hovers). Shortly thereafter the family moved out and rented the property for many years. The husband died before they opted to retake possession. His wife sold it to the next people and she moved to Kensington Market after re-marrying...

Then there was the woman who owned it in the 1900s, for longer than any other owners to date - though we're fast catching up. It had originally belonged to her husband but he died young so she lived there with her daughters, who were rather modern ladies, all working downtown. This woman lived to her 80s and eventually the property was sold. The sisters moved to a house a few doors north.

The peeps who lived there before the couple from whom we bought the place were "the crazy old ones". They painted everything pink. Something tells me they were hoarders. We still hear stories from long-time residents (including our attached neighbours) about how the frail, elderly lady once ran down the block - wielding an axe - to get rid of a door canvasser. To her credit, apparently she warned the guy first. They were ancient yet climbed out the attic windows regularly to clean them - not that anything else was clean. They tarped the entire backyard, we understand, because they didn't like light.

Those from whom we purchased, entrusted the house to us though there was a bidding war and we were not the highest bidders. Partly, that's because we riskily agreed to take immediate possession, despite our ownership of another property, and they'd both managed to score tenure at UCLA in their respective professorial fields starting immediately. Partly - I like to believe - it's because we sent them a message assuring them that we would care for the home and become its stewards, explaining that we'd offered as much money as we possibly could. They left us the curtains in the front room, the ones made by his mother, from fabric she'd snuck out of Germany as she fled the death camps during WWII.

This home was shaped by those lives. It's shaped by ours. Now, when I nighttime property-stalk (I'm discreet but if you leave your blinds open I'm gonna look!), I can't peek at those properties in the same way. Before, I wanted all of the sexy Victorian homes. Now I cannot imagine living somewhere other than my home because I have no investment elsewhere. I'm not in those floors and walls and windows. I wasn't the source of their vision.

Every 5 minutes I tell someone I am never doing this again. (When Scott is with me, he says scary shit like: You'll forget about the misery and I really want to put in a coach house studio someday, or (worse still): You know there's realistically another year of renovation remaining once we actually move back in. Mind you, I can't say I regret it. In every moment I'm reminded of my firey desire, my fortitude. And honestly, I fucking love how it is coming together. I'm the only one I need to satisfy and I am largely very satisfied. This has contextualized my irrepressible confidence and reminded me of its value.

If you want to do a major reno and have fun, there's only one solution IMO (and I stand by this, though many of you may counter): Be fucking rich. Way richer than I am. Way richer than you are (unless you happen to be super wealthy, in which case you have my congratulations). You need to be able to rent a house and not worry about how much it costs when your project triples in time span. You need to be able to comfortably afford to pay for your reno twice in the event that you get fucked over by people. You need money to afford the team of people who will help you to litigate against the people who may fuck you over. You need to be able to take time off work without pay (or maybe just not bother with a job cuz you don't need one). You need to have the money to fly away on a trip when everything becomes soul-crushing, and it will, even if you're a zillionaire. You need not to worry about how every cost overrun may impact your ability to fund your kid's out of province university experience (even as your mind is blown and you are insanely grateful that your kid got into the best university in Canada).

If money is no object, you'll get from here to there pretty unscathed, I hazard to guess. Otherwise, hope to heaven that your health holds up and you come to love your partner more than you did in the first place. Hope that you have the visceral memory of a mouse. Hope that you love what you create to such an extent that the punishing journey of its achievement is an eventual afterthought. Hope that you become more, because of pain, than you would have been otherwise. And take the long view. Cuz really, there's no alternative.

Sunday, November 5, 2017

The Universal Cowl

I'm starting to understand the ways in which having a reno is every bit as miserable as parenting a baby. Those occasional waves of anxiety - out of nowhere - that veritably wind one, the nausea, that omnipresence - never being able to escape otherness and new accountability that continually fucks with one's identity. I'd like to tell you I'm better at it this time around. I mean, I am better, mercifully, because I never want to be less elegant than I was when I was coming to terms with motherhood. But I'm not better enough.

No question, this shit is 100 per cent Buddhist. I had a kid and, in addition to it being nerve-pingingly intense, I was no longer what I had been. I didn't realize that I'd care about what I had been and honestly, in retrospect, I don't think I did. What I cared about was stimulus management.

Some people are creatures of habit because they're inflexible or, maybe, because they're dull. I'm a creature of habit because every new thing displaces the things that came before it and I have to come to terms with that, tetris-style, and it leaves me fucking unmoored. There's a reason that I won't bring something into my life without careful consideration. I have to find somewhere to put it.

To wit in the most pedestrian terms: I ordered some new yarn, sight unseen - very standard-issue sock stuff which I've used before. I wanted white and navy to recreate the recently finished object below, my first foray into fair isle and one which I enjoyed tremendously:

Midwinter Neck Warmer by Runningyarn

Alas, I took this when there was no natural light so it looks washed out. But it does show SNOWFLAKES!
The store had only had white-white in stock, not cream. I debated whether it would work, suspected it wouldn't and ordered it anyway. I mean, the freakin' yarn store, formerly up the block from me is now effectively down the block from me. No big deal. Scott went to pick it up. When he brought it home and I opened the bag I was absurdly fussed. Of course, the colour was wrong. Instead of wrapping it up and putting it in my bag for a Monday return, I obsessed for a good 10 minutes. It was so ugly. Why had I taken the risk? I knew the shade was wrong but I'd inconvenienced myself anyway. Now I had to be in the midst of hideous yarn, albeit hidden away across the room (but still taking up space), and I wouldn't be able to cast on my project. Note to reader: I also bought other yarn which worked just fine and allowed me to cast on immediately in a different colourway.

OMG people, I'm talking about a fucking skein of cheap and cheerful yarn. Imagine how I'm managing being 8.5 months into a 5.5 month project with no end in sight and a truly unprofessional construction team. (I'd like to say those people don't know what's going to hit them at the end of this bullshit but I suspect they do and they just don't care.)

Do I wish I'd never started this? I don't know. That's kind of like asking: Do I wish I'd never been born? It's a fait accompli and it will continue on its unknowable trajectory. My displacement is about me. That truism about perspective being reality is apt. Sadly, I am seriously attached to my illusion of control. Honestly, as it fails me again and again in every way as it pertains to this reno, I do not know what to do. What is a world without control? Random stupidity? Random joy? This whole random thing is NOT ok.

What is one to do? Well, my jam, when I'm beside myself, is to engage my brain fully. I spent years avoiding fair isle (stranded) colourwork because, um, that shit looks hard. In truth, I've tried it on a few occasions, every now and again, and I was so mediocre (ok, bad) that I was disinclined to continue. Well, no time like the present to get good - especially when a skill is so difficult to develop that it leaves me with no mind-state to feel existential chaos. (See what I mean about the illusion of control?) Do you ever knit for 12 hours straight because you can and the stitches, slipping quietly from one needle to the next, create the most gorgeous brain-groove?

From the existential to the practical: I may suffer under the illusion of control because I'm human that way, but my perfectionism is getting itself in check. There's a great 80s song by the Roches (a name I always thought was pronounced the Rosh but actually they call themselves the Roaches) called Everyone is Good in which there is a big-ass lyric, IMO: Forgive yourself for everything, having once been blind.

The great thing about experience is that it speaks of temporality. I couldn't do stranded colourwork until I could, and even though my first project is flawed (some of those interior floats are a mess),  it is creation. Time was, I would have laboured over its imperfection. Now I see that, for all its flaws, it's also beautiful because it's the incarnation of a moment in time - a moment in mind. It's how I gave up control and let my autonomic self do the work.

I am a strangely un-tense knitter. Sure, my nature is akin to a bouncy couch spring, tightly wound and a pain in the ass for all that, but somehow, when I start to knit, the tension recedes. In fact, I'm the only person I've ever come across (though I'm sure there are millions of us) who needs to tighten up her tension while stranding. If you fall into this category, may I suggest that you work with a springy, non-superwash, wool? Skip the silk, the fibers with drape, because drapey yarn tends not to recoil and, if you're on the loose side to begin with, you want to create a feedback-loop with an assertive yarn that talks back.

Yarn is my universal translator. It takes all experience and contextualizes it. It expresses the biggest things in the most compact, most visible, most tactile way. Sometimes things are impossible-seeming for their scope but that's a fallacy. The universe of the fair isle cowl is just that - thousands of stitches cohering in organized chaos. And that's creation. Nothing till it's something. And very stimulating, for all that.

Monday, October 30, 2017

A Local Death

I was not surprised when I heard that Gord Downie died, I mean, he had terminal brain cancer which he publicized extensively in the 18 months before his death. But it shook me. He's not my one-true musician, but for most of my life, he's occupied my domain. I remember the first time I heard the Hip on CIUT when I was 15, his strange voice, set to bar guitar, was the musical equivalent of a frayed nerve. The band really hit in the late 80s - back when I would visit friends at Queen's (in Kingston, Downie's hometown, where they often played). Of that era, there are few hits I dislike more than Blow at High Dough - a song I always thought was irritating and played in such high-rotation that one could scarcely scan the airwaves without landing on it (in Toronto, that is). But the sound was easy and jangly, very of the time.

When I was at university, an acquaintance got a sweet gig taking photos at concerts and she needed some extra assistance. We were scheduled to shoot the Hip at the Horseshoe only, somehow, wires got crossed and we ended up seeing The Grapes of Wrath instead. I was so disappointed - though I do recall loving that gig. I felt very Rolling Stone that night. I finally saw the Hip in concert in my 20s, where I don't even remember...

No doubt, Gord Downie is part of the Ontario lexicon, but he's also a trade-marked creature of Toronto-proper. I remember, after M was born, the first time I left the house to go food shopping. We'd been having groceries delivered because I was a total mess but finally Scott convinced me to walk the 3 minutes to the Dominion (yes, we used to have a grocery chain with that hilarious name) where I promptly proceeded to run into GD in the most literal fashion. He was quite gracious and I was so sleep-deprived that I didn't notice it was him until he walked away with his two young children and Scott said, way to smack into Canadian royalty. I remembered thinking, if Gord Downie slums it at Dominion with his kids on Sunday morning, then so can I, not that I made another trip of that sort for many months afterwards. 

Our paths were interwoven though he hadn't the slightest idea of who I was. My daughter parties with his older son. My oldest friend's son is his son's best friend. He was always on the radio, supporting a cause. He was a facet of my locale. Take that Sunday I went to get yarn at the now-defunct Lettuce Knit in Kensington Market. The streets were closed while the band played an impromptu concert, and one that was dearly embraced by a pop-up crowd.

The last time I felt this sort of shaken was when Natasha Richardson died. I was not a particular fan but I was so horrified by the pathos of it all, that a woman in the prime of her exciting life, could be cut down by something as moronic as a bunny-hill ski-fall. This was no Michael Shumacher event. A young woman took a silly tumble, while holidaying with her teenaged son, and then she freakin' died. I obsessed about this for weeks. I was vaguely afraid to walk down stairs for a month.

Here's the thing: we're all very here until we're not. I think about this often. I think about it as I walk to work and I see the quotidien vistas that define me. This place is my village and I'm watching it age and change - and, some things, die. Every day I walk past Hart House, where I got married in the chapel. I walk past the building where I was meant to have an economics exam but, traumatically, messed up the timing. I walk past the restaurant where my parents met the first guy I lived with (I still go to that restaurant, albeit infrequently). It was also the place that my child last saw a de facto uncle, sacrificed at the alter of divorce. 

I can't take a step without inhabiting this place. I mean, when Scott and I met on the streetcar (do y'all know that fun story?) Day for Night had just been released and we bonded over (the truly brilliant) Nautical Disaster. There's a reason the media refer to the soundtrack of one's life.

When my grandfather died I was in my early 20s. He died quickly and I didn't know what to make of death at that point. At some sparky philosophical moment in my thirties, I decided that he was effectively still alive because I am alive (as are all of his children and grandchildren). We recreate him in our activities. We're guided by his former methodology. In some empiric way he's with me when I drink Cinzano, when I eat certain food, when I craft. During a conversation, in my teens, I completely horrified him, an old, traditional southern Italian man, by disclosing that I would never change my last name if I got married - because my last name is mine and why on earth would I give it up for somebody else's? I stood by that pledge. But what about when I'm gone? How will he be here? (Note: I'm not so meta that I can get with the idea that every generation justifies the last. My child never knew my grandfather, just as I never knew countless family members of the recent and distant past. I cannot vouch for them. I don't know how or if they live in me.)

I didn't know Gord Downie but he knew me. Sure, he didn't know me - he got me, like he got millions of others, through the mystical lens of poetry and music. He got me in that he was a dyed in the wool southern Ontarian (and it's hard to make this sound epic or deep but, much as Billy Joel has elevated the bridge and tunnel set, Gord Downie gave us sonic credibility - a way to grasp our dangerous landscapes and emotions). This morning, as I walked to work, I saw the remnants of a bakery,  twenty years gone. I got coffee at Sam James where everyone knows me. I took pictures of more homes being demolished and rebuilt, and I listened to Gord Downie's posthumous release, a love letter to his family and band mates, to his dog, to Lake Ontario. I cried and cried, not because a mortal person died of illness too soon, but because this world is ever-changed for every such loss.

I really don't know what it means to have been here and I wonder if I ever will.

Saturday, October 7, 2017

Status Update

By some Thanksgiving miracle, I'm here to advise that things are happening - framing is 80 per cent complete. Sure, this time last year I posted about how there is NO way I wouldn't be back in my post-renovated home by Thanksgiving and that was my non-negotiable, bottom line. Everyone in construction assured me that I'd be back by the beginning of September - not optimism, flat out lies. But whatcha gonna do? Happily, we will be having roast vegetables, roast lemon capon and homemade pumpkin pie today. We will also be siting on the couch while we eat. Honestly though, it's just a convention to sit at a table while one dines. What's wrong with cozy spot on a couch?

We got some red roses and a really nice bottle of cava, not to mention that it's the most summer-like day for a fall holiday ever. I really love summer in fall. There is much to be grateful for.

But let me tell you where we're at with the house. To date, we've:
  • Expanded a foundation around a boulder
  • Corrected the foundations of 2 neighbours
  • Created a full-depth basement that now travels the entire length of the house
  • Replaced a rotted load-bearing beam
  • Replaced a dry-rotted two-story wall
  • Created the framework for 5 new rooms (sewga, 2 bathrooms a kitchen and a sitting room), and
  • Replaced the stairs and walkway from the basement to the backyard

What's remaining, as far as I can remember and in no particular order or order of magnitude:
  • Installing the heating, electrical, insulation, and plumbing - and all of those necessary systems
  • Actually outfitting all the rooms that have been built i.e. kitchen cabinets, pantry, showers, floors etc.
  • Installing a yoga wall in the sewga room
  • Replacing all of the windows at the front of the house (and getting the windows into the new build)
  • Installing a fireplace (I'm going with 3-sided glass and gas because, despite my undying love for the scent of wood smoke, not one person (even the fireplace installer) could recommend a woodstove.
  • Opening the load-sharing wall between the staircase and dining room (this will NOT result in open-concept), which involves installing beams in existing walls and ripping up the ceiling to reinforce the second floor.
  • Installing some new sort of balustrade (or glass?)
  • Affixing a brick veneer to the entrance wall, opposite the dining room.
  • New lighting throughout the house
  • New painting throughout the house
  • Reconstructing the wrecked-up dining room
  • Fixing the stairs (they need to be sanded and repainted) 
  • Hardscaping the backyard
  • Landscaping the backyard, including bamboo in boxes, to be set up outside the kitchen window for what I'm calling a panda-scape.
  • Furnishing the new spaces (we recycled a lot of our furniture that's been around since the beginning of time, and certainly before we had any taste).
That sounds like rather a lot.

So, I'm keeping my fingers crossed and moderating my consumption of alcohol to the best of my ability. And feeling rather thrilled - for the first time since this saga began - about this architecture meeting my needs:

That's Marcus the framer, in the sewga room. What it lacks in width it makes up for in height!
Everyone thought this roof was crazy. The builders questioned it. People said it would look weird. But as my mother likes to say: no guts, no glory. I think it's fantastic. There will be wood panels or beams (scandi style) on the massively tall ceiling and a beautiful floor. It's going to be outrageously light in this room (note the window to the left of the wall of windows - it is not small), I'll be able to sew without overheads, even on a cloudy winter day!

And, to get super-controversial, I've decided against putting a bathtub in either of the new bathrooms (and the one in the basement is just a powder room). I'm putting in showers and I'll install a tub, as required, before I move in 20 yrs, in the event that people still bath at that point. Why no tub?? Um, because I hate them, they take up space, I feel entirely unstable getting in and out of them (and like I'm bound to slip while I'm in them). I love a sexy shower with bells and whistles and maybe a seat, you don't have to put a curtain around it if you like glass, and I do, and that makes for an infinitely more spacious-seeming, freakin' tiny bathroom. And as for the argument that children need them, my kid's been having a shower since she could stand up (not that all buyers necessarily share my perspective).

So, here's to a Kristin-post that isn't all doom any mayhem.

Today's questions: What do you think of the all showers/no tubs decision? Are you in camp bath tub? Do you think I'm insane? And how do you like the crazy ceiling? (Note: If you hate it, feel free to desist from being entirely truthful.)  FYI, the roof doesn't look strange from the back of the house - you can't see the crenelation from that view. It's only from the third floor balcony that the shape of the roof is discernible. Have a great weekend, everyone. Kxo

Friday, September 22, 2017

Wherein I Decide to Take the Long View

Well, hey there. It's been a while. Generally, when it's been a while, I've been itching to write for weeks. Not this month. This month is kicking my ass in many ways. I almost wrote "in all the ways" but, frankly, that's just not true and I don't want to get into a pissing contest with the Universe.

In terms of work, I'm on the sexiest project of my career. That's very cool, on the one hand, and I'm thrilled have the opportunity. On the other hand it's absurdly challenging and this alone would be enough to keep me up at night. You know it's far gone, though, when scary-ass work is less scary than life. Last weekend I was almost looking forward to incessant briefings (wherein I'm in the hot seat) because that's not where I live. Sure, it's a core, but it's not my fucking home.*

And then there's the pain. It's not a great moment on this front. The last couple of weeks have been barely bearable. I have enough experience now to tell you that chronic pain, when it's there, adds a layer of effort to everyday life that "regular" people cannot understand. BTW, I'm really glad they can't understand cuz no one should have to live this way. I'm managing as best I can; there's a trajectory and I have to see it through. But it would be pretty fucking hard to do my life right now, without pain, and pain is a constant undercurrent that takes so much energy to compartmentalize (the only way I can keep going).

I don't want to dwell on the negative, not because I don't love dwelling, but because I have so little bandwidth remaining that I can't spend it that way. And frankly, this is my time to expend this kind of energy. If not now, when? I want to have a gorgeous home that meets my vision and that's a fucking hard thing to achieve. I want to be respected in my career and to set myself up for the most interesting projects in the future and that takes a shit-ton of commitment. I want to help my kid to achieve and to manage waves of crushing stress she doesn't yet know how to navigate, but I'm not sure I'm the optimal teacher. I mean, coming home after 10 hours of meetings, only to deal with financial planners or builder matters followed by reviewing/editing my kid's assignment (always due the next fucking day, can she not plan ahead just slightly???) is not something I do particularly elegantly. Note: That's an understatement.

I'm not going to dwell on the specifics of the reno because, inasmuch as many aspects of this process are disappointing to me, my complaints are not going to facilitate anything productive. Moreover, this process is so cyclonic that, in any given week, I will have gone from utter despair to vague hopefulness. In the end, if my involvement can provide any assurance, we will have an excellent finished home. I need to take the long view, not because I'm measured, but because I'm outpaced. It's the only way I'm going to have any sanity at the end of this. So, will this take twice as long as it was supposed to (and only that much longer if I'm lucky)? Yup. I can either fester with hostility about how we got here - and be tormented by the costs involved in time over-runs - or I can be massively grateful that I currently live in a comfortable house, in a nice neighbourhood, while chaos runs its course.

The problem with vision is that it isn't fortitude. I'm continually reminded of Orpheus, the need to stay the course without looking back. There is only the present, which will lead to the outcome, and my job is to remember that. (BTW, I'm not so far gone that I don't realize that comparing my scenario to that of mythological Greek prophets ain't particularly woke. Mind you, isn't that why Greek mythology came to be? So peeps like me wouldn't feel so philosophically unmoored??) Scott and I are learning so much about ourselves - our style, our biases, our baseline expectations - and our ability to influence dynamics. But be under no illusions, potential big-time renovators: This process is a fucking full-time job. We have definitely encountered challenges, that I may speak more about once all of this is complete, but don't imagine that spending more money will get you better site management. It's just a crap-shoot. Cuz, trust me, I did ALL the research anyone could have done, and more, and I'm still disappointed. If you a) know what good management looks like and b) are incapable of just standing aside and hoping it all works out in the end, you will be managing your own project to a greater or lesser extent. Know that going in and you can save a lot of money (and disillusionment).

On that note, I've taken the day off work to have a meeting with the builders. After that, I intend to go to crappy-place's fantastic patio to drink more sbagliatos than is strictly sensible. Needs must, and all that. Mercifully, the weather supports my plan.

*Another stressor, though I don't dwell on parenting minutiae here, is that my kid is now in Grade 12 and it's the make-it-or-break-it year academically. This has been an adjustment for us all. Simply in terms of the administration that accompanies planning for university/college, it's a job. And, of course, it calls attention to the fact that my child may be living in a new city at this time next year. I never thought this would concern me but now I'm not sure how I feel. Well, I'm sure I feel she should stay home for one more year to gain additional life skills, with my support. I have a whole plan worked out but I'm not confident she's game. But seriously, there's going to be a fantastic house in it for her! I mean, we live in urban-centre Toronto. You could do worse than to have your own space in a gorgeously renovated century-home downtown. Especially if your parents intend to give you freedom. How do people manage with more than one child???

Sunday, September 3, 2017

What Do You Think of This (Salon)?

Oh, Park Slope, you give so much to the people of means:

Emily Blunt's home, courtesy of Apartment Therapy. I cannot believe she's selling it?!?!?!
Note to Reader: You have to look at the whole house tour to get a sense of how truly massive it is.

Kristin, what do you think of this? Well, I love it, but more for the architecture and overall vibe than for the interior design, which could have been made a zillion times more functional. I mean, who needs 2 chairs looking at a mirrored wall?? But hear me out.

This is effectively the layout of my house. Sure, my first floor could fit in this room (if you folded it in half) but see that bay window? The foyer? The orientation of the staircase? People, I can relate. When I first walked into my home, I knew I would buy it and it was because it channeled this vibe, writ mini.

I love many styles - mid-century, Edwardian, Victorian, chalet, robot-modern industrial, pretty-well anything English-looking in a dark-walled, brooding way - but this is the architecture that makes me wonder about past-life theory. I mean, I cannot encounter it without feeling entirely at home. I've been here before. And I'm super habitual. It's a mark of how much I like the rug that I wouldn't rip it out in favour of those wood floors, unhindered. Look at those freakin' floors.

Now, I do think you've got to have a shit ton of space to waste it so spectacularly on this layout. This room is not for living. It's for waiting in or passing through. And that's ok, I guess, though I would do it differently. In fact, if there's one thing about this house I dislike (in terms of the architecture), it's the massiveness. Hard to feel cozy here.

But what about this, other than the gift of its bones, do I love? The admixture of modern lighting and original features takes a sassy approach. I approve. I love the mash-up of painted wood in the salon against the original wood in the foyer. (In this respect, I'm no purist. You try living in NYC in winter. One needs light.) I think highly of brightly-coloured furniture against a minimal, neutral background. It's punchy, but it doesn't overwhelm.

So, what do you think?

Monday, August 28, 2017

What Do You Think of These (Bathrooms)?

Some days, I fixate on one palette, as evidenced by these intriguing, European bathrooms:

German house from Desire to Inspire. Seriously, look at the whole tour. It's luxe, if not my scene...

Spanish house from Desire to Inspire. Is it just me or can you spot a Barcelonean place from its floors alone?
See a theme? In full disclosure, I'm not one of those people who shies away from pink. My house was painted very pale pink from top to bottom. Admittedly, it was that way when we bought the house but, when I repainted, I kept the pink.

Kristin, what do you think of these? Well, what I love about them is the textural quality of each. They're pretty busy on either the floor or the ceiling, but the rest of the room balances that out, to my eye. And in both instances, mirrors give scope. Mind you, it's scarcely like these rooms need additional scope. They're huge by comparison with the size of my new bathrooms...

Re: German bathroom: I do love rads, that door molding is lovely and the sink is huge. Mind you, the wood is too yellow-toned for the pink, IMO, and it looks like you could stab yourself on the edges of that structure (would we call it a vanity?). I love that this is set up differently than most bathrooms - to suit the realities of the space rather than to force the "standard bathroom" orientation of things. The lighting is pleasingly soft, but the lit mirror means one can apply makeup day or night.

Re: Barcelona bathroom: Honestly, that floor. I love it just cuz it reminds me of Barcelona! I adore the height of the room, the huge window and shutter. I love the mirrored backsplash under the sink. I love the juxtaposition of light colours with black and the rosette on the ceiling (though it's strangely placed given where the WC is). I don't like marble much but, given the choice, this is how I'd use it. (Note: marble is a pain in the ass, IMO. I don't recommend it.)

Moreover, I find both of these bathrooms kind of sexy (if one can apply this term to a bathroom without seeming weird). I think I will be aiming for sexy in the new house.

But what about you? What do you think of these?