Polishing a Turd: Adventures in Basement Renovation

My upstairs roommate moved out in April and the pleasure of not sharing our living space made us hyper aware of the empty rooms beneath our feet, 1200 square feet of potential income separate from my pleasant upstairs existence. That’s why we started working on the basement only a couple months after finishing the upstairs. The five-year plan turned into five months.

We laid out lines of gold spray paint on the floor to evoke walls, but I couldn’t see the shape of the final product through the detritus and weird layout. I could see, however, the potential for an airy open space, with big windows that let in a surprising amount of sunlight.

The upstairs renovation made us cocky and overconfident. A couple grand, a couple weekends of twelve-hour days should be sufficient.

Cy is really good at demolition and making piles and being ruthless, so that happened quickly—sketchy walls knocked down, fetid carpet torn up, rotting drywall hauled out.

The ancient oil furnace promptly broke, of course, in the first few days of basement tinkering. It had to be replaced before we started any meaningful construction, so there went another couple grand. Electric will be way cheaper than oil, and it’s hydroelectric here, so I guess sacrificing the health of waterways is better than burning dead dinosaurs.

The job grew in complexity. Cy laid out a day-by-day plan but each task on the list took double or triple the estimated time. Carve up a cast iron tub and an absurd old wood-fired range, carry the heavy pieces out, fix all the questionable wiring the previous owner had recklessly slapped together, and then framing, and then drywalling (oh god, drywalling) and taping and mudding and texturing, activities that no sane person with a disposable income would ever take on herself rather than hiring a drywaller, but the only thing we had was time and four hands. 

So there I was, trying to help lift grotesquely heavy, brittle sheetrock over my head, or freehand cut it into appropriately sized squares to patch holes, and Cy was carrying 80 sheets one by one down the narrow stairs.

Then we were zealously mudding the ugly holes left between untidy sheets. It wasn’t pretty, none of it, but the thing about sad drywall is that once a space is painted and filled with furniture and the walls have art on them and the deep windowsills are lush with potted succulents, it doesn’t really matter. It’s insulated and fire resistant and clean.

Then Cy went to work tiling the bathroom and installing ingenious metal siding in the shower. Metal was way cheaper than plastic shower lining; frugality was the top priority in this endeavor. We recycled drywall (terrible idea), bits of lumber, leftover particleboard, faux wood paneling, paint—it was amazing.

My boss, a notorious procrastinator, was renovating her kitchen and promised me for two months that I could have her old kitchen cabinets, but with a June 1 deadline bearing down on us and no sign that she was anywhere near coming through for me, we decided to build our own out of a thrift store desk and upper cabinets and more bits of old wood. We poured another batch of concrete countertops (much smoother this time around) and Cy wrestled with the plumbing (always the plumbing).

I hope it’s obvious from the staggering laundry list of renovations that Cy did everything and had all the skills. I was there merely as a willing accomplice and a cleaner. So much cleaning, sawdust and metal dust and drywall dust and concrete dust. I lived in dust.

After the final clean we painted the floors, leftover beige in the bedrooms and a rich gray-teal in the common areas. Suddenly it looked habitable, and then Cy trimmed it out with cedar fencing (cheap) and it smelled like California after a rainstorm.

We finished on a Wednesday morning and my friend (and tenant, whoa) Carolyn was moving belongings in by the evening. The basement is a quirky space without enough storage and the light switches are in weird places and there wasn’t enough dedicated electricity to install a full range and it’s really cold, but it’s also an enormous apartment with a ton of sunlight. And it’s mine.

The Shift

i climbed up to the bench on the tahoe rim trail yesterday and while it was lovely and warm, the wind was blowing fiercely and cirrus clouds were creeping eastward over the crystal range.

everyone is talking snow.

the forecasts claim six to twelve inches above 7000 feet on monday or tuesday, and then lake level is getting a wallop a bit later in the week. this is very late in fall for the first snow, but i still can't decide if i'm nervous or really excited. the buzz is contagious; almost all the staffers have scored their ski bum jobs and leased their ski bum houses, and now everyone is just waiting breathlessly for the weather to turn for good. 

i feel like i have my shit figured out, in the best way possible. i've rented a big house with a bunch of friends at brevard rates, i've sent in my absentee ballot, i'm going to downieville on thursday (!!), and (i think) i scored not one but two jobs at heavenly. i'll be working the front desk at HR until january and then go follow my true passion of makin' coffee at seattle's best.

if i had known moving cross country and setting up a new life was going to be so fun and easy, i would've done it a long time ago.

Ode to the Road

Once upon a time the BC team drove to Fort Collins for road nationals, and I was admittedly a little disappointed. Every road trip movie and book ever made has lead me to believe that the experience should be chock full of camaraderie, gut-busting laughter, spontaneous ridiculousness, annoying inside jokes, too much food, not enough sleep.

Years later, I finally got my wish.

We assembled a crack squad of road trippers, based off two important criteria: desire to ride bikes somewhere new, and ability to get time off work. Somehow this rigorous selection process yielded a foursome that meshed perfectly. 

I have access to no photos as of yet, so use your imagination.
Here we are brandishing Mitch's arsenal on a debris-littered gun range.
We're wearing so much camo that all you can see is
surreal floating torsos and heads. 

We started the trip off on an unbeatable high note--embracing our inner rednecks in the hinterland of southwestern Arkansas, where Dan's BFF Mitch outfitted us with all the guns, off-road vehicles, and Natty Ice necessary to fully appreciate the splendor that is the south. Fueled by a heavy meal from Country Vittles (the jewel of Crossett, AR), we ventured out into the ragged swamplands to shoot clays, knock over deer stands, splash through as much parasite-ridden mud as possible, and generally make asses of ourselves.

Here we are, dry and happy in sunny Waco,
which is apparently the best town ever,
home as it is to Uncle Dan's BBQ, the taco shack, and Cameron Park. 

Obviously we were sad to leave, but our next stop made up for it. Cameron Park in Waco, TX provided hours of thoroughly entertaining mountain biking on roller coaster trails that made the Floridians giggle. Then we stuffed ourselves with excellent BBQ and hightailed it to Austin.

Unfortunately, rain and storms dogged our step. Austin received something like 50% of its annual rainfall during our visit, which elicited from us a hearty WTF?! Of course, there were still Goodwills to troll, Texmex to consume, Mellow Johnny's to explore, exorbitantly expensive and beautiful cowboy boots for Sarah to buy, and so many bars to hop. Sixth Street had it all in spades: billiards, dubstep, mechanical bulls, fantastic margaritas, swanky hotels, crispy bleached blonde girl bands, and bearded dude blues.

Here we are presenting our muddy posteriors,
the aftermath of a day of mountain bike misadventures in Austin. 

Which is not to say we didn't try to ride in Austin. A foray into the slippery, silty Barton Greenbelt was entertaining if somewhat frustrating, but at Rocky Hill Ranch the carnivorous clay devoured our drivetrains and our spirits. The towel was thrown. So what else was there to do but retrace our steps to Waco and play there some more?

And then (why not?) we did some climbing in the sandstone haven of northern Alabama. Which is to say, Dan and Sarah did some climbing and Sarah gently and expertly ushered Chuck and me up the rock. I've gotta say, that bug has bitten me. Anyone have a pair of climbing shoes I can buy?

Here I am scaling a rock face at Palisades Park,
with a determined/constipated grimace on my face.
I was sure I'd never make it to the top. 

And so, to sum it all up (or to "shine the light", as it were): shotguns, mud, Shiner-Bock, cheap motels, expensive hotels, cowboy boots, live music, rock climbing, gubernatorial facial hair. All in all it was a marvelous adventure.