Window conundrum

The problem with shopping for one window…is what do you do about the rest of them?  Our current windows are the original, wooden, double-hung windows.  They have what I believe is called a "dog ear" on the top sash.  Cute.  Not efficient. Some are painted shut. And sadly, several are in bad repair.  As this house was in foreclosure, quite a bit of maintenance had been deferred—i.e., the house had been neglected.

 Leaky window

When I was confronted with the leaking kitchen window, I opted to remove the whole bump-out—presumably, the roof flashing was what was leaking.   

Since the sides of the house are stucco, we had to tear out the framing and make a new window surround (which will eventually hold the window).  Don is doing this part, since Lalo and I would have no idea where to start.  Though I guess that would be the demo part.  We seem to be good at that part. Nevertheless, leaving this to the pro.

 Big hole in the house!

But what kind of window do you get when you only are going to replace one?  Well, some of the windows are in rough shape—particularly the southern-facing ones, due to all that beautiful California sunshine.  I figured I was a year or two away from replacing all or some of the windows.  If I had to buy one now, I'd better have a plan for the rest of the replacements.

I met with a couple of window replacement companies.  One of them was really good at his job.  And the next thing I knew, I was ordering all 19 windows and a sliding door.  What can I say? He made me an offer I couldn't refuse.  I'm looking forward to my new energy-efficient windows and trying not to think about the money.  The manufacturer is Anlin and they have a lifetime warranty (for the house's life, not mine—you're welcome, future owners!).

I’ll be sad to see the old divided lights go.  The mullions in vinyl replacement windows look so cheesy I opted out.  But in the long run, I feel like it's the most responsible choice. The best part? When I open a window, I won't have to worry about the sash falling apart anymore.

Bearing the load

When you spend a crapload of money on a new roof, you have a vested interest in keeping it on top of your house. So when we discovered we had a load-bearing wall, we called in reinforcements.  

 This wall

I posted a question on Facebook (I wonder if that'll still be around by the time you're reading this? It's all the rage now) asking for a referral to a contractor.  Somewhat enigmatically, my friend James said "Don Fisher! He's an artist!"  Now, this was a little confusing to me because I know Don is a literal artist—he's an actor.  But presumably James was referring to something construction-related. I dug a little deeper and got the idea he was a carpenter. When I called, he told me he's actually a licensed contractor and cabinet maker.  And due to a lucky turn of fate, he was also available!

Don came over about a week after our demo.  We chatted about the house for quite a while (so long that his wife texted something along the lines of, "Are you bidding on the job or DOING the job?"), and we decided to enlist him in our project. 

Our plan called for removing a window—it was too low for counter height.  This must have been the world's smallest eat-in kitchen.  So it was either replace the window or close it up and gain some wall space—in our case, a new place for the fridge.  We opted for more wall space.  When Don came over, he noticed that the other kitchen window—which had a bump-out of a few inches—appeared to have been leaking.   It needed to be replaced.

 We think it was the flashing that was leaking

So we encountered a bit more scope creep in our plans—a new window.  But the good news is that Don knows how to do a lot of things that (as was quickly becoming apparent) were well beyond our ability.  So we kept some of the tasks we are capable of completing ourselves.  In my case, painting—not impressive, I know—and in Lalo's case, moving the gas line and plumbing.  Yeah, that's right.  Skills, yo.

Bustin' it up

At this point we have been living without a kitchen for so long I've lost track.  Lalo says it's been 5 and a half weeks, and while it seems like much longer, my calendar indicates that's about right.

In early June, Susie came over and helped up tear the joint apart.  Which is to say, we got the benefit of her many months of boot camp (not real boot camp, mind you—I assume it's an exercise regimen where people yell at you while you do push-ups).  Lalo and Susie were definitely the brawn of the operation, while I busied myself with taking stuff out to the back yard. 

Our first disappointment occurred when Lalo went up to the attic to rake back the insulation and discovered that the wall we were planning to partially remove was load-bearing.  This despite the assurances of a contractor we had met with (his bid would have blown my budget—hence our attempt at DIY).  So….rats. Load-bearing wall. 

 

The second disappointment was that the cabinets were installed in such a crazy fashion that they had to be completely demolished.  I had hoped to donate the structurally sound ones to Habitat for Humanity (or at least put some in the shed for storage).  No dice.  They were nailed to the wall and—perplexingly—also through the upper soffit.  I'm not quite sure how they managed that.  

The upshot—Lalo and Susie swung away, and we ended up with a big pile of splintered wood in the back yard. Not one, but two hammers were tossed during the demo.  Presumably by accident, as no one was hurt. 

Then the walls came down.  And the ceiling. Don't worry, that was part of the plan.  I admit, I was reassured it was so damn hard to take it apart.  Rest assured, this house is solidly built.  It wouldn't come quietly and had to be torn asunder.  It took about a day and a half, but we eventually wrestled it into submission. And by we, I mean Lalo and Susie.  But I helped. 

This is the story of your house.

About six months ago, I bought my first home. It's located just inside the border of a Los Angeles neighborhood named Valley Glen—practically in Van Nuys, but let's face it: I'd rather say I live in Valley Glen. I live here with my boyfriend, Lalo, and our dog Diogy.  I bought this house in December 2011, and we're now in the process of tearing it apart and putting it back together. And that's where you come in. 

This is a time capsule for the future owners of this house, and anyone who wants to come along for the ride. As I renovate, I repeatedly ask myself, "What on earth were these people thinking?"  So I'm writing this to let you know.  If you're wondering why I replaced the original windows, why I painted everything aqua and grey, why I tore out the kitchen—then keep reading.

Our house turned 70 this year.  It was built in 1942, during the throes of World War II, and reflects the austerity of the period. I suppose that makes it closer to "colonial revival" than anything verging on "modern."  It's not as whimsical as some of our storybook-style neighbors. There's nary a dovecote nor cupola nor cottage roofline.  There are no diamond-paned windows, in case you were wondering what I'm about to tear out. However, it does have a lovely large bow window.  It's early 40s to its core, and I'm doing my best to hang onto that spirit.

It has its quirks and its charms, though the latter outweigh the former.  As soon as I walked in the front door, I knew I wanted it. The rest of the tour only served to cement the desire. So I guess it's true what realtors say, huh? I hope that's how you felt when you saw it for the first time. But I hope that day is far, far in the future. Because with all the work I'm putting into this joint, I'd like to be here a while!

In addition to this chronicle, I'm also putting together a literal time capsule.  I'm planning to put it in the wall before the kitchen drywall goes up later this week.  So what should I put in the time capsule?