Daphne preps her condo for construction.

Demolition begins tomorrow. I have come to hate the wall between the kitchen and the living room. I thought that having it torn down would be the exciting part—maybe I would cover it with graffiti or swing a sledge hammer at it. But now that the day has arrived, I am stressed.

This renovation is already far more expensive than I imagined, and who knows what surprises this old building could hold. If there is a steel beam in the wall, everything changes. What if a pipe breaks? What if the electrician takes one look at the wires and says it all has to be redone? Lately I find myself wondering whether I am qualified to be a homeowner.

It’s also terrifying to lose your kitchen without knowing when you will get it back. These are the thoughts that run through your mind when you find yourself paralyzed in the paper-plate aisle at the grocery store because you have no idea how many plates, cups, bowls, and utensils you need.

Fears aside, I have come too far to back out. This weekend, it was time to bid the old kitchen adieu and empty her out. First, my boyfriend set the kitchen on fire. The idea was to say farewell with a home-cooked meal, but a couple of tablespoons of walnut oil in a wok can apparently burst into flames. The damage was minimal: a singed hood that is set for replacement in a week and a blackened pan. The stir-fry was delicious.

Daphne's friend's renovated kitchen was an inspiration—and helped her find a good contractor.

After months of toying with the idea of a kitchen overhaul, I dropped by a friend’s condo to see her recent renovation. Charlotte was like me. She started talking about renovating her kitchen soon after she bought her place, but she never had the time or will to get started. Also like me, she wanted to take out the wall that separated her kitchen and her living room.

We all have secret means of getting motivated. I refused to fix the drawer face that came off in my hand, with the idea that it would force me to get a new kitchen. Charlotte and her boyfriend took to throwing knives at the wall to see if they could make them stick. Maybe I should have gone with the knives idea, because one day—all of the sudden, it seemed—she had a fabulous new kitchen. It was heartening to see that somebody, somewhere, had made it happen.

I asked for her contractor’s contact information. I admit that I have been a bit promiscuous when it comes to the collection of renovation-related contacts. I did the same thing with realtors when I was contemplating buying a place. It’s part of my process: Make a decision, buy every related magazine on earth, interrogate everyone I know who has already done it, and on and on. Seeing a finished product, however, was apparently all I needed—this time I actually called.

The first time I saw my condo, I was in love.

It was completely devoid of the top items on my wish list: Access to outside? Nope. Two bathrooms? Negatory. Open kitchen? ‘Fraid not. But, oh, was it beautiful.

From the beginning, I wanted a place where I could entertain. I wanted the kind of home that people would gravitate towards. In my fantasy, it would be a place where people meet before going out to dinner, and where cocktail parties and game nights take place. My daydream involved a permanently stocked bar and a refrigerator drawer always filled with cheeses and tapenades.

I wanted a place that felt warm, old, and unique. I grew up in the suburbs of Dallas, where every apartment building looks the same, and all the granite countertops and living-room balconies in the world weren’t going to convince me to live in a cookie-cutter home here in Washington. My agent called it “charm,” as in, “Yes, Daphne needs her charm."

When I began my search, I quickly came up against a painful reality: Beautiful old buildings are filled with tiny, closed-in rooms. The open floor plan, it turns out, is a contemporary notion. For months, I trudged in and out of open houses, with and without my agent, and I hated them all. I thought of them as lousy boyfriends—many had so much going for them, except what I was after.

Then, true love. I am not sure I even saw all the rooms before I decided to make an offer. It probably happened as soon as I looked across the long living room and saw three arched windows.

I hope you’ve all enjoyed reading this column as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it over the past few months. With the kitchen completed and my house fully functional—if not quite “pretty” yet—I have to take a break from the renovations, both for my sanity and my checkbook. Over the summer I hope to tackle some landscaping, while saving up for the last BIG project: the upstairs bathroom. I don’t even want to think about living without a shower for however long that will take.

For now, it’s time to look back and see if I’ve been spending my money well. Since I haven’t done an official appraisal, I have to do my best guess based on comparable homes in my neighborhood, so take my guess for what it’s worth. Rowhouses with about 1,100 square-feet that are totally renovated and have two bedrooms and 1.5 baths are going for about $400,000 in my neighborhood. Even though my upstairs bathroom still needs work, some of the drywall is banged up, the yard isn’t landscaped, and I still have some painting to do and electrical outlet covers to install, I don’t think a $375,000 estimate is out of the question. So let’s do the math:

As I hinted last week, the kitchen’s finally done! We had a couple false celebratory days, as there always seem to be. The counters were finally installed a week and a half ago, and the contractors were to come the next day to install the faucet and garbage disposal, and hook up the dishwasher. They realized after unpacking the disposal that a valve was missing. Luckily, they were happy to pick one up the next morning, a Saturday, and come by to finish the job.

Since I chose a pretty big sink for my kitchen (and I LOVE it), I could only fit the faucet in the corner, which isn’t uncommon. But when I went to use it that evening for the first time, I noticed that it was installed as if it were in the center—that is, it swiveled far over the counter and not far enough over the sink. I immediately began checking around and making mental notes for the guys, but that was the only mistake I could find. Not too shabby!

I may have moved in all my personal belongings, but the idea that anyone arriving on the doorstep has free rein to tour the house, as I once did, remains. Friends want to see every nook and cranny, even the parts I still cringe to show (namely, the upstairs bathroom). They get full descriptions of the six-month history of each room—and every dime I’ve spent on it. It won’t be long before I’m providing media packets with color photo spreads.

I still remember being a little nervous about letting a plumber into my old apartment, slightly skeeved at being alone with a strange, burly dude in my living quarters. Now it’s just part of the game. I throw my door open to whomever, take them through the house, and have no compunction about bringing them to the master bedroom or giving them a key so they can come and go as they please, sometimes for months.

There's no Diary of a Fixer-Upper today, but good news! Heather Goss, who writes Open House's weekly Diary of a Fixer-Upper column, will host a chat tomorrow, Wednesday, June 25 about her renovation. Heather bought a crumbling rowhouse in Columbia Heights in the fall and has spent the last six months gutting and remodeling the home herself. Ask her anything—from how she got financing to what mistakes she's made to where she found her sleek European fridge.  

Submit your questions now and Heather will answer them on Wednesday from Noon to 1.