A slight dust up

I've talked about it a bit on here, but back at the ponderosa we're doing a little remodeling. Hopefully by the end of April, our kitchen, living room and bathroom will have been turned into showcase rooms ready to be featured on Houzz, pinned all over Pinterest and cover-ready for Dwell.

In the process I'm also remodeling my bank account about $20,000 at a time. Don't get me started.

Anyway, when I mentioned to colleagues and friends we were going to do this, they were more than happy to share all sorts of warnings and red flags about what it was going to be like. Since I've never remodeled anything—hard to imagine I know, what with me being so handy and all in that way all Jewish boys who have hands that look like they've never done a day's work in their life are—I had no idea what to expect. Fortunately, with all the best intentions, there was no shortage of people willing to let me know.

Contractors are the worst to deal with.
Having this one proven false has been a great blessing as well as a relief. Our contractors are awesome. We've known about them well before they started the job. They've worked on many of our friends homes, so we had reliable testimonials as to the quality of their work (spectacular). They're honest, hard-working perfectionists with sick senses of humor. And they wield a mean nail gun. What's not to like?

Plan to spend at least a third more than your budget.
First of all, what budget? Second, all the costs we were given up front have pretty much stayed where they were. The exceptions have been the changes we've made in window size, cabinet size, number of outlets, additional features, the nice countertops, etc. Now that I reread that, I might think about stopping with the self-inflicted increases (see bank account remodeling above).

You'll have to move out while the job is being done.
Here's the good news. The way our house is laid out, all the work—with the exception of the bathroom—is on the opposite side from the bedrooms.

So instead of incurring the additional cost of having to live in a hotel for four months, we get to incur the additional inconvenience of living in less than two-thirds of our normal living room space.

It's cozy to say the least.

There is however a big, plastic sheet dividing our cramped living space from areas where the work is being done. It makes a great backdrop for photos, what with all that diffused light. It also comes in handy for my Dexter role-play. Enough said.

There'll be dust everywhere.
I'm sorry to say, on this one they were right. There is dust everywhere. On both sides of the plastic curtain. Inside closed cabinets and drawers. All along picture frames. On the books. The floors. The shelves. Ev-er-y-where. Trying to keep up with cleaning it is the impossible dream. One minute you think you've gotten it all, the next you're writing words with your finger in the thick layer you just noticed on the mantle (the words I wrote were "Someone should really clean this thing").

It's the housekeeping equivalent of spending a day at the beach, then realizing you have sand in places you didn't know you had places.

It's like the guys who take a year painting the Golden Gate bridge, then have to start back in the opposite direction once they get to the other side.

It's like Disneyland when it comes to cleaning it up: it'll never be finished.

You can relax. The box of metaphors is empty.

I have to keep reminding myself all this dust is temporary, but the beautiful home we'll have when it's all done is permanent.

Just like the inhaler and the Claritin.

Getting educated about college

It's been one day since the son got accepted to a prestigious out-of-state college, one that's a shining blue spot in a big red state. I'm not naming names.

But it has a tower. A Longhorn steer. And a bass drum named Big Bertha.

Along with his out-of-state college comes the out-of-state tuition, which is four times what it would be if he were an in-state resident.

I was expecting the hefty tuition tab. What I wasn't expecting, or at least didn't figure into the worksheet (as if I did a worksheet) was the travel expenses. For us going there, and for him coming home.

Since yesterday, we've already fired up the credit cards and racked up a few thousand in airline tickets and hotel reservations for Family Orientation. Then there's getting him settled in when he leaves for the school in August. Another parents of freshman get together in October. And then we have to bring him home for Thanksgiving and Christmas (we figure the guy we've rented his room to will be already be gone for the holidays).

The other thing all this "education" means is, since he starts in August, our annual vacation to the Hotel Del Coronado will not be happening for the first time in fifteen years. Instead, we'll be holed up in a room at the Doubletree Hotel, enjoying the chocolate chip cookies they give us on check in, and buying him everything he needs for his microscopic-sized room at the university.

And when I'm not doing that, I'll be complaining about not being at the Del.

In those rare moments I can get past how much this is all going to cost, I forget about the fact since young Mr. Spielberg is going to one of the top film schools in the country, I'll have to work writing banner ads and manifestos until I'm ninety.

But that's overshadowed by the enormous pride I have for my boy in going after his dream, getting in the school he wanted and having a clear vision of the path he wants to take. Even though because he's so talented in so many ways, there are a wide variety of paths open to him.

Besides, credit card applications are like buses. There's always another one coming along.