It’s Friday again. Not just any Friday. A big Friday. 9/11.

And I sit here, in my soggy slacks, heart racing, overwhelmed, wondering how to even begin. How do I touch this day, its vast complexity, the impossible memories, the open scars?

I don’t. I won’t. I refuse to try.

Admittedly a cop-out, but I will stick to my schedule and update you on the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-renovation of our new place) Yesterday, I met my contractor at a hardware store in midtown to pick doorknobs. I was uncharacteristically decisive, honing on a simple glass doorknob that was shockingly budget-friendly. On the way out of the store, our contractor said we needed to pick hinges too. He showed me a display of various options. He said that each of our doors would have three hinges and that we needed to decide whether or not to add finials to the bottom and top of each. In a moment of un-me-like sensibility, I said that we didn’t need to add decorative touches to our hinges, items people don’t really notice. And he said to me that finials are little things, tiny details, but that they matter. That they affect the feel of a home even if they are not consciously studied or seen. With that, I decided our hinges would have finials. Because the little things matter even if they are often overshadowed by the bigger things.

The little things.

On a day full of big things — the anniversary of national tragedy, Toddler’s first school visit, the funeral of my beloved English teacher Mr. Johnson, I could wax poetic about American pride, and the commencement of a lifetime of education, and the solemn passing of a stellar soul. But I won’t. I will savor the little things.

I will not only remember this as the eighth anniversary of 9/11. I will remember it as another simple and priceless gem on the necklace of life. I will remember drinking coffee with Husband in the morning. Collecting our babies from their cribs. Husband scouring the Internet for Halloween costumes for the girls. The pounding and poetic rain. The trademark tapestry of giggles and tears. The squeaking green boots. The pumpkin orange raincoat. The new school smiles. The sophisticated sipping from the big girl fountain. The celebratory CVS jelly beans. The vast church full of faces. The tears shed and words uttered for a delightfully dapper man who was devoted to literature and bow ties. The crumpled face of a mother who’s lost her son. A beautiful best friend in sweats clutching her sleeping beauty on the eve of her thirtieth birthday. The kind cab driver named Excellent. The bottomless blue eyes of two baby girls waiting for their Mommy to hug them at the end of a long day. The phone call from Husband saying he’s on his way home. The delicious creature sitting on my lap “working” on her plastic laptop as I write this. The sweet smell of her shampoo. Her little legs swinging between mine.

Because it’s the little things, the tiny details, at once mundane and magical, that make up our days. And years. It’s the little things – the hinges on the ever swinging doors of life, the quiet hellos and goodbyes, the mangled umbrellas strewn about city streets, the hugs and kisses and smiles and tears, that comprise life.

Life that can be gone in an instant.

This is a recurrent dilemma in life. In my life at least. And in yours too. You just might not know it yet.

Friday again. Time is zooming by and our future home is taking shape. But to be perfectly honest (and I am all about perfect honesty even though I believe perfection and pure honesty are both myths), I feel as if I am running out of things to talk about vis-a-vis the Happy Headache (i.e. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-reno of our new place). Yes, things are happening, but nothing earth-shattering or super interesting. Yesterday, we spent a good ten minutes debating whether to install a circle or square drain in the master shower and whether to center the chandelier in the room or across from the fireplace. These are important decisions on some level, but not very interesting to talk about. And here I am talking about them. Go me.

So the pressure was on, is on, to dig deeper and excavate those symbolic and philosophic layers of our home renovation. Because I know they are there. I know that this transformation is not all about sheetrock and lighting. I know that this transformation is as much about me and who I am and what I want and what I don’t. And, for better or worse, because I am an infinitely complicated creature I knew something would come to me. Something a pinch more interesting than square versus circle and debates about chandelier locale. Something would come.

And it did! I was getting a manicure. Yes, indulgent. (Something I should not talk about on a blog like, say, slipping a stranger a twenty for air.) Yes. But in case you missed the memo, I have a party tonight. A very important party with very important and very cool kids. And I am more than happy to shop in my own closet for this party (not really, but I’m being a good sport about it), but I figured, hey, I should at least have some good nails. Because if I remember anything about college kids, it’s that they are obsessed with cuticles. Right. So I walked into Pinky and instead of grabbing for my old standby #162 Ballet Slippers, I took a moment and surveyed my options. And then I chuckled a rebellious chuckle and went for a different pink. Fluorescent pink. I think it was called Short Shorts or something equally alarming. I held the little bright bottle up and I said “this is it!”

The nice lady humored me. Together, we sat. She went to work on my ragged mommy nails. And I studied that little bottle awaiting its fate, that bold and bodacious Barbie pink. And as time passed and my nails grew more beautiful, I had a minor change of heart. In a soft, apologetic voice, I said to the nice lady, “I changed my mind. Ballet Slippers, please.” And she looked at me and nodded and then laughed. At me. Or with me, I don’t know. “It’s fun, but I’m not fourteen.” She laughed some more. Because I’m very funny. Very.

Fast forward twenty minutes. My nails were beautiful. And boring. Yay. As I left the Pinky, I looked back at that ferocious fuschia and wondered if I had chosen the wrong pinky? Who knows. Who cares? Honestly, this is an embarrassingly indulgent quandary I probably shouldn’t publish. That would be the safe thing to do. BUT.

But I am sick of safe. I want color and boldness and risk. So, yes, there is a point. That point? Hmmm. In life, there will invariably be at least two choices – bold or bland. Sizzling or safe. And sometimes safe is the way to go. We shouldn’t pick the most fun looking car seat or the man who thinks jobs are for losers or the home with poor structure. There are times when the safe choice is the right choice. BUT.

When the safe choice is not the obvious right choice, I think we should go sizzling. Live a little. In our new home, we are going to blanket one wall in jungle wallpaper and another in enormous pineapples. We are going to paint our living room marigold and hang a feather ball fixture. We are in the process of picking a dining table. Will it be the more prudent black lacquer or an oval slab of glass balanced on two vintage horse heads? I’m thinking horse heads (as long as they are safe for the kiddos!)

Oh and because I know you would lose sleep over the aforementioned dilemma, we opted for a square drain. At first we floated around in our Yuppie pool of banal indecision. But then the contractor said in a whisper, “Round is predictable. Square is cooler.” A no-brainer indeed!

We each have one life. So let’s live it. Let’s make it sizzle.

(Coming from the daredevil chick who lives one block from her childhood home, went to law school because it seemed prudent, and is scared of flying and skiing and taking the subway.)

__________

Is your life more sizzling or safe? Would you add more sizzle if you could?

Friday again. Time for my weekly update on the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-reno of our new place). This week, as you might have guessed from the above glorious pic, I’m talking tubs.

I’ve never been a big bath person. I’ve always been a loyal fan of the quick and efficient shower. We’ve been in our current apartment for five years and I think I’ve taken all of one bath. Pretty pathetic. These days, we have a good excuse though. We are parents now. Busy people. Baths, like so many other things, seem like indulgences, time sucks. Plus, our one tub is currently filled with a rainbow medley of baby bath toys, foam letters, empty bottles of bubble bath. On one end, there’s a little bath ring suctioned to the basin, so little Baby won’t topple over. In our home, bath time is for the girls.

But now. We are afforded that fabled fresh start. We are knee-deep in creating a new home for ourselves. And maybe a new way of doing things? Yesterday, Husband and I attended our weekly meeting at the job site. We plowed through the week’s list of tiny, but vital, details. We chatted about carbon monoxide detectors. We debated gas vs. electric. We bantered about HVAC. And then we did our walk-through.

We walked into the area that will one day be the master bath. In the center of the soon-to-be room was a massive cardboard box. Husband and I took a peek. There it was. Our tub. Sleek and white and very adult. Not the kind of tub you’d toss kids or rubber duckies into. Our tub. (Yes, the beautiful one up there!) I studied it. Its sleek lines and quiet promise. And it wasn’t hard to imagine it fixed to our floor, standing freely, waiting for human contact. And, again, this was a moment that made this all wonderfully real. There is a tub, a real tub, in our new place!

But I wonder whether we will use it. Whether I will. Whether, after years of efficiency and bath toys and bubbles, I will press that proverbial pause button, soak it all up, and savor bath time once more?

Are you a bath person or shower person?  Why? Have you always been this way?

Friday again. Time is flying. Summer is slipping.

But the Happy Headache (the untimely-given-this-recession-that-might!-be!-over!-according-to-certain-CNN-folks- -gut-reno of our new place) is at a symbolic standstill of sorts. Husband and I arrived at our weekly site meeting yesterday morning and I don’t know what kind of optimistic dope I was smoking, but I expected walls. The opaque kind. Last week, all the walls were framed, those steel beams standing proudly waiting for clothes, and naive me kind of thought that by this week, the sheetrock would be up. Silly me.

Truth is that things didn’t look much different. The project manager assured me this is indeed a predictable point in the process when clients get disappointed because it seems like nothing is happening. Seems. Truth is there is a whole lot of talk about plumbing roughs and many breeds of wires. I try, but I can’t get overly excited about wires. So Husband and the experts banter about fancy things like low-voltage and CAT6 and these conversations just swirl about my coffee-drinking head, not quite penetrating the surface. The project manager explained that for a couple of months now, the walls will be open and plumbing and wires will be run and integrated. So that, you know, one day we will be able to take showers and flush toilets and have air conditioning and heat and security. And music. And Internet!

This morning, Husband and I sat side-by-side on our prudent ultrasuede sectional and between refilling chocolate milk sippies and making Elmo sing and doling out well-earned jelly beans, we talked. I asked him what I should write about on the blog today. And smarty-pants and ever-humble Husband said something like: You should talk about wiring and structure. About how incredibly important these things are and how they ultimately remain hidden.

I looked at him and smiled and confirmed that I picked the right man. Yes, he is easy on the eyes. Hot. Very hot. (Sorry, Grammy. ‘Tis true.) But, ultimately, what matters is that he is uniquely and compellingly wired, that his internal and emotional structure is sturdy and sound, that his integrity and moral core are robust and resilient.

So, maybe, just maybe, it’s not the wallpapers and drapes and blue eyes and broad shoulders that matter most. Maybe, just maybe, it is those things that are invisible and intangible and invaluable, on which we should cast our focus.

Who knew a weekly report on a renovation could evolve so quickly into a love letter to Husband? Who knew wiring could be so inspiring?

Once upon a time, I was afraid to commit. The idea of permanence was alarming. The notion of forever was frightening. I preferred freedom, the ability to move about on whim, the license to change my mind.

I hate to disappoint, but I’m not talking about love and relationships and monogamy. But I am talking about things almost as exciting and consequential: furniture and bookshelves and storage.

Another Friday. Another update on the Happy Headache (the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-reno of our new place). This morning we had a big meeting. Husband and I walked through the site with the whole team (architects, contractors, kitchen designer, decorators).

Gingerly, we trouped through the dusty work in progress, slithering through steel beams, dodging saws and lasers (yes, there were lasers. Green ones. Not sure what they were doing there, but I thought they were groovy). And as we snaked through the controlled chaos, I realized something. I realized that in the process of designing a home you find out about far more than materials and fixtures and finishes (and lasers). You find out a lot about yourself.

Want an example? Sure you do.

Five years ago, when Husband and I moved into our current abode, I had a strong opinion on built-ins. I hated them. I preferred free-floating furniture. Unique pieces that could be mixed and matched. Pieces that could be tossed or moved. I abhorred the prospect of fixing shelving or cabinetry to a wall. But now? I want to build a shelf or a cabinet or a countertop in every nook and cranny of our new place. Now this will not happen as there is a little thing called a “budget” that Husband reminds me of from time to time when I spiral into my very-Aidan-esque zone of impracticality. But why do I suddenly crave cabinets and counters? Why the sea change?

Want my theory? Sure you do.

This is not about a simple shift in aesthetic predilections. No, this is about a somewhat scary twofold evolution.

(1) I hate to admit it, but I am growing up. I am warming up to the idea of (gulp) commitment. Built-ins embody a sense of permanence, of commitment, of decision. They cannot be dragged around a room on a whim. They are fixed in one spot, there for good (or at least until the next Yuppie family gets their grubby little hands on them). And you know what? This is suddenly fine with me. I am finally ready to settle down. I’m not sure exactly how I feel about this. Wait. Yes, I do. I feel proud that I am maturing into an adult. And I feel sad that I am not a kid. I feel both of these things. Constantly. Not just when pondering decor dilemmas.

(2) I hate to admit it, but despite my best efforts to fight it, I am becoming more practical. Built-ins are practical. They save space. They fit because they are custom-created. They offer so much storage! For books and toys and dolls and blankets and toothbrush collections and plastic power saws. They allow us to pretend that there is a modicum of order in our lives. You can stuff all the stuff in cabinets and then close the door and poof – civilization returns. Kind of.

To recap: (1) Built-ins will be ubiquitous in our new place; (2) I have overcome my construction commitment phobia; (3) I am morphing into a practical person; (4) I am old.

Writing this post is boring me. It is also making me feel bad about the rational creature I have apparently and unwittingly become. So now I will stop writing it. And I will close Laptop. And I will walk outside into the sunshine. And I will do something young and impractical that does not involve lasers or storage or commitment. For example, I might (1) savor a rebellious Friday afternoon glass of rose with my sister; or (2) try on a fluorescent mini dress I would never buy because it is fluorescent and mini and a dress and I am thirty; or (3) go home and vroom toy taxis on the hardwood floor with giggling girls and try to remember what it was like to be a kid, a creature shrouded in blissful oblivion and untainted by silly adult concepts like “commitment” and “practicality” and “old.” Cheerio.

Thoughts on built-ins? Thoughts on commitment? Anyone have the 411 on those groovy green lasers?