José Manuel dos Santos

We’ve built a service economy that wants to please, ping after ping. This week I ordered a cheap wood delivery for a trash bin project. One flatbed truck, 12 text messages, and a forklift later, I got what I needed, plus a lot more to think about. Behind every easy order is a maze of assumptions, protocols, and costs we don’t see. I’m a satisfied customer. Sort of. But I wonder: who pays for all of this, and how?

There’s a man who rides past our house, a stranger who somehow feels familiar. I haven’t met him, yet I’ve made up a whole story about him. The way he rides, dresses, swerves. The kind of quiet presence that makes you reflect on your own. Maybe I admire him, maybe I envy him. I’m not sure yet. But this much I know: neighbors shape how we feel about a place, and maybe, in time, we’ll trade stories and become part of each other’s.

I’ve been thinking a lot about quality control, not the kind that checks things after the fact, but the one that prevents issues before they happen. That rare, often thankless mindset. We just built a deck at home, fast, improvised, not perfect. Still, I’m proud of it. There are always things we could’ve done better. But I wonder, are we losing the people who see those things? And what happens when no one really owns quality anymore?

Two men, one skilled, one learning, built a 500+ square foot IPE deck in four days, balancing power tools, blistered hands, and competing design opinions. What started as a casual idea turned into a hands-on masterclass in building, learning, and navigating construction “by committee.” Alongside real tools came real lessons: about planning, improvising, and the invisible labor behind quality work. What remains isn’t just a deck, it’s a physical memory of teamwork, frustration, and a new sense of capability. And it looks damn good.

My brother-in-law, a seasoned contractor from Seattle, is in town, and within hours of arriving he covered the house in blue tape, pointing out every flaw left behind by our GC. It’s a bit of a masterclass, not just in construction, but in standards, tools, and expectations. We’re building a deck together, and I’m learning the difference between doing it yourself and doing it right. Also realizing the U.S. return culture is generous, but not without hidden costs

I bought a $200 electric lawnmower, and with it came a quiet war of ecosystems, expectations, and design intentions. We say we want modular, shareable, repairable tools. But brands have figured out how to build loyalty through battery platforms and convenience. The real design challenge isn’t just in the tool, it’s in the systems that surround it, and the ways we choose to live with them.

Lighting used to be simple—on, off, wattage. But now, LED vs. incandescent sparks household debate, emotion, and even quiet subversion. Color temperature is personal. Perception becomes preference. We argue over 2700K vs. 4000K like it’s ideology. This week, I write about how lighting in our home became a back-and-forth of stash wars, secret swaps, and small wins. Not because we don’t agree, but because lighting isn’t just technical. It’s emotional. And maybe it always has been.

This week, we had a product standoff: two boilers, two philosophies. In a sea of commodity options, one stood out, not just for performance, but for empathy, silence, and precision. Viessmann vs. Lochinvar. The decision wasn’t about price or specs, it was about design that considers the installer, the user, and even the basement. And in the end, it wasn’t the designer who insisted. It was the practical voice in the house. This is what good design looks like: quiet confidence.

Some houses are magazine-perfect. Ours is not. And that’s by design, or at least by intention. This week’s piece reflects on minimalism, modernism, and the quiet rebellion of letting a home evolve with life, with mess, with memory. There’s beauty in white space, yes, but also in the hooks behind the door, the trinkets that linger, and the contradictions we live with. It’s not about fitting a philosophy. It’s about letting a space breathe, and letting it become what it needs to be

Photos and art, almost everyone has them, and when we don’t, we notice. In this new house, we’re finally unpacking our pieces again: childhood photos, friends’ paintings, my wife’s mother’s self-taught copies of Klimt and Van Gogh. Alongside them, we’re keeping the sculptor-owner’s sketches and black-and-white snapshots of the house. Nothing matches. Nothing is curated. But that’s the point. These pieces carry memory, identity, and a little bit of each life that has passed through here. It’s going to be fun.