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What lies beneath the carpet (a prequel)

11 Jul

Before we got all SoFlo-y with the paint colors and even put our gloves on for battle wallpaper, we had to deal with floors. The house featured this indoor/outdoor carpet Aaron shows off from the guest room:

As much as this turf carpeting screams tropical location, we were looking to get down to the bones of 1958 Florida. So we ripped it up and rolled it into the carport, where it was quickly snatched up the next day thanks to a Craigslist curb alert. People love turf!

Here’s what we found post-ripping/rolling/lugging:

Terrazzo floors! For decades, people covered them up with carpet or tiled over them, but luckily, it’s coming back in style now. Cost of pouring a new terrazzo floor? $30/square foot. Our house is roughly 1000 square feet of living space (more if you count the screened porch & shed). Turns out we have $30,000 floors. We faced a time crunch here–for us to learn how to trial-and-error it ourselves guided by the internet, it would prolong moving in even further because the process roughs up the walls some, and that would postpone painting, etc. So we decided to get professional help–there are entire businesses down here built around refinishing terrazzo floors. We prepped the floors by removing the nail board from the carpet:

Then the sparks started to fly. Aaron used his Dremel tool to grind off the nails left from the nail board. When I used the end of the hammer at first, the nail coming out led to shattered floor pieces, so we had to adjust our course. Grind on, grind off:

Then the terrazzo refinishers showed up to grind down the stone to make it even and smooth. Next step was filling the holes with a clear coat substance, followed by polishing. Above is what I walked into once they were finished. The flash is supposed to show that it’s shiny, but since it’s a bad photo, let’s focus on my then-recent pedicure.

After a late night of floor-prepping, we made a stop on the way home at the famous Jaxson’s Ice Cream Parlor. We were there at just the right time. I do not find delicious ice cream worth the long line and parking lot of insanity. But late on a Sunday evening with minimal line and park-where-you want? Perfection. The ice cream-lover in me remembers why:

Home sweet canal

While the view is an obvious plus, it’s not all bliss living on brackish water. On the final walk-through before we closed, a salt water crab was waving to us from the water. Our romantic side led us to swoon “it’s a sign; it’s a sign!” Then we moved in and saw what that cute little guy and his crab army can do to your yard:

It’s all very “we have crabs!” now. That is one hole of many, by the way. But we still love the crab, because when you see him waving your forgiveness is immediate. We also have barracudas, though, less cute but more badass and set to a Heart soundtrack. We purchased a vase from Ikea that Aaron turned into a rotating aquarium by dipping it into the canal every 24 hours to discern what’s living in our backyard.

Wait, is that a jellyfish medusa?

Yes, yes it is. Mini jelly for the win! We spotted puffer fish in the lake around the corner, and Aaron cannot make it through a dinner on the intercoastal waterway without spotting fish.

Behind his head and slightly to the left is where we live. I’m trying so hard not to say “living the dream,” but it does feel that way. Especially when we arrived to dinner by bike. I hold my breath every time I cross over the waterway on the bridge because I don’t want to miss a moment of this life.

1000 square feet of paradise will do.

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Start your new life by removing old wallpaper

4 Jul

On July 1, Aaron and I spent the first night in our new house. We’ve been working on it since Aaron got back from Paraguay from his second bug safari (as only I call it.) The day after we closed on the house he left the country, so there was no time to start the DIY process. Despite being born to parents who love to fix up a house, I am the last person to initiate a DIY experience: I will be part of the team, but if you leave it to me to lead, I will get overwhelmed quickly and run away. My last experience leading was in my first house, where after painting my cabinets before I moved in, I called in professionals to install my new flooring. When you’re not handy, nor naturally interested in the process, you lose steam fast. I do not have the stamina for home improvement to go it alone.

This time was different, as I am married to a man who has ALL THE TOOLS. And if he doesn’t have one, he will quickly size up the instruments needed and have said tool before I’ve located my painting clothes. Also, Aaron’s enthusiasm is unparalleled. Give that man a project, and he cannot be stopped. Sometimes I have to stop him because we’ve skipped dinner and I get grumpy when this happens and the reason is wallpaper removal.

Our homeowning journey began by getting out-bid for a completely redone house on a lake. Then I had to talk Aaron out of a major fixer-upper (as in needs a new roof, has mold AND termite damage.) But it was 500 square feet bigger than our current house and on deep water, as in you can drive your boat from your backyard TO THE OCEAN. Our hypothetical boat, sure, but the dream was hard to let go for my handy, dreamer husband. The neighborhood was not great, though, close enough to the interstate that you could hear the car noise from the front yard. There were too many negatives for me to volunteer to live in a construction zone.

Then we found it: A modest house on a canal in an idyllic neighborhood near the beach.

View from the backyard:

It’s a canal to nowhere, but it does count as waterfront property in the real estate listing. After the inspection revealed that our old (by Florida standards) 1958 house was in remarkable shape for its age, we realized this was our house. With only cosmetic changes facing us, I was much more at peace with this venture. “Let’s make it pretty” versus “let’s stop it from falling down” sounded much better to me.

Tropical Storm Debby threw us our first structural challenge after she peed on our guest room floor, as Aaron likes to describe it. After so many hard rains fell in a short period of time, some of it leaked into our house forming a sad little puddle. So that’s #1 on the to-do list before the rainy season delivers its next installment.

Battle wallpaper

One of the ugliest parts of the house was the bathroom. I’ve never seen wallpaper on a ceiling until this Mylar delight introduced itself. 

Brings new meaning to that phrase “look, something shiny!”

My first task was to remove this wallpaper to prep for painting. The shiny layer peeled off pretty easily, leaving behind the glue-y undercarriage that held fast to its squatter’s rights. After spending hours trying to scrape it off using water and a putty knife, we finally discovered this stripping gel that made everything go twice as fast. You spray it on really thick and let it soak in, then the paper peels right off. But I started getting spray cramps in my arm, so there was a price. Then we got the concentrate form which you mix with water into a garden sprayer and it goes on like butter. Now I was working at three times the speed, but in messy fashion: the gel drips everywhere: onto the floor, your face, your hair.

I finally got to the actual wall/ceiling:

Next stop was sanding the walls. Just to show you what a DIY idiot I am, I started dreading the laborious process of sanding…by hand…with sandpaper. Aaron then introduced me to the electric sander and that fascination with power tools men have? I GET IT. I felt like I was controlling a rocket that might launch at any moment if I didn’t carefully maneuver it to blast the rough edges off those walls. It was a little scary (as I had to balance on the edge of the tub or sink counter) but also invigorating. It was similar to when I took a self-defense class in college and the adrenaline led me to punch the padded man until my knuckles bled.

After a layer of primer, and three coats of white on the ceiling by Aaron, I painted the walls in the shade of “arctic stone,” which should be spoken with a British accent in my mind.  This was my first attempt at painting anything other than white on white, so I was thrilled.

I’m sparing you the boring photos of white-on-white action (which we did a lot of, particularly doors and trim, and walls that we learned through sanding had hidden wallpaper underneath. We pretended not to notice that. Just keep painting. Just keep painting.)

Aaron cut glass to fit the medicine cabinet nook, which he is building shelves for and will eventually place a mirror-covered door over. I know the flash-in-the-mirror is irritating, but the lavatory is small, and I’m tired.

Next I took on our bedroom–we’ve decided to embrace SoFlo beach living an do it all the way. Bright colors are happening: lime sorbet for the master suite. And by master I mean minor, and by suite I mean efficiency. You know, quaint.

Our bedroom suffered from an unfortunate wallpaper border, which I eventually removed using the magic gel. This photo was taken in the frustration stage (before discovery of the magic gel.)

Here I am after Aaron made me face the camera while painting (I resist posed pictures, but the other action photos are either out of focus or ineligible due to my vanity.)

I know the paint looks yellow here, but I swear in person it looks green.

Our favorite part of this house is the view from our bedroom window. My first two years of teaching I lived on a river, and my bedroom faced the sunrise over the water every morning. It was one of the joys of my time living there, so this feels very full circle (yet much happier.) Here’s the final product after move-in (with minimal unpacking and whatever pillowcases we could find):

See it’s green when it dries, right? Also note the upgrade in blinds, which will be upgraded again (the ones behind the bed will become vertical also to filter more light on those days I don’t have rise at 6:00 am.)

Rising each morning takes courage for some of us. When faced with the laborious process of removing the wallpaper, it often seems too much. Easier to paint over it, to use a “hack” to find a way around it. Eventually this catches up with us, and we are faced with hours and hours of stripping ourselves down to raw. But by finding the tools to remove the often tacky masks we wear, we find our confidence. That shiny exterior we thought was fooling everyone was fooling no one. It was always too much; people were just being polite when they said it was “interesting.”

But it takes time to get to raw, and it happens one day at a time. Sometimes you thought you were painting over paint, but it turns out to be wallpaper. It’s okay. Take it one room at a time.

Grateful for the swale

6 May

My destination on Monday, May 1, was a doctor’s office in an anonymous looking medical park. This was another step in a process my husband and I recently began in order to discover why we haven’t yet conceived a child. And it’s not for lack of trying.

At first I felt paralyzed by our situation. It became yet another thing in my life that felt in a holding pattern: my career, my home, and now my future family. My reaction to this put some strain on the one thing I never questioned: my marriage. I couldn’t stay at peace with so much uncertainty swirling around me and this caused my husband duress as he started to feel partly responsible. He did move us down here to live with alligators and twice the mosquitoes (and of course termites.) And the bees are mean here. MEAN I TELL YOU!

But I don’t blame him. I blame my personality (ESFP: Extravert Sensing Feeling Perception.) My people are optimists who “live in possibilities,” and too many negative ones do not rest easy in our minds. We are also driven to “meld ideas into a structured format,” which explains my need to write (and let’s face it, teach.) This post is an attempt to attack what I’m bad at (sitting with negative possibilities) with what I’m good at (writing the ideas into words.) If you don’t remember your Myers-Briggs results, find them out again. It helped me understand why I’m reacting so poorly to obstacles this year, when normally my optimism is steadfast.

A swale of a tale

Last weekend, outside my window pounded the third day of rain in SoFlo. Not spring showers, but the kind of unrelenting downpour that reeks of hurricane season. The humidity hung in the air like a ghost as I moved through each day. As I drove down any highway, I was surrounded by low-lying areas swollen with water, holding in buckets of moisture until the soil is ready to receive them. Long after the rain ceases to free-fall, these temporary ponds now havens for water fowl morph back into mere dips in the ground. The water absorbs back into the earth without a trace. The sunshine the state is named for reclaims its place in the sky, and the landscape pumps enough vitamin E into our veins that we forget all about the foreboding, yet inviting nature of those low-lying areas called swales.

It was Monday, day three of rain, as I drove down the highway obsessed with this idea of swales. They flanked every road I drove down, and they started to feel familiar. Ever since I learned this term, I’ve been fixated on it. Swales hold the water in for days as the soil absorbs it gradually. This makes our groundwater healthier, even though in the meantime it’s a mess to be out in the world.

Nature dumps inches of precipitation onto the earth and the soil says “not yet.” Hold onto that for a while. I’m not ready.

It’s only after the downpour that you notice the saturated swales that fade into the background when empty and dry. But they’re always there, waiting for the right moment. We’re just not paying attention.

“Stay off the Swales”

Monday was my third  appointment with my doctor, and every step of the process so far had made me feel better; action defeats uncertainty every time. This time was different, though. Something happened in the exam room I didn’t see coming. After being asked to disrobe from the waist down, the nurse left me to drape myself in a “sheet.” And naturally, as soon as I sat down on the crinkly paper-covered exam bench, my “sheet” ripped in the back. In its defense, it was made of paper, and modesty isn’t really something I needed for what was about to happen.

I was here for a transvaginal ultrasound. And this wasn’t my first time, either. Over my right shoulder, I could see the implement to be used during the exam: it resembled a giant dildo, or “wand” tipped with lube (or “gel” as they call it). I promised myself not to joke about this with the doctor because it would shake her professional nature. But it was so hard. SO HARD! And there I did it without even trying. While I’m in the mindset of a 13-year-old boy, I would like to add that if I were legally forced to have this procedure, I do not think I would enjoy it as much.

After about 15 or 20 minutes, I started to get impatient and realized I need to pee again. They insist that you empty your bladder before the wand action, so I started to plot how I could quickly dip in and out of the restroom before they came back in. Before she left, the nurse had asked if it was okay for my doctor’s male intern to join us, and of course I said yes, I mean, the more the merrier at a vagina party, right? But this meant more anxiety over being caught getting off the table with the ripped paper sheet as they walked into the exam room. Minutes of indecision went by before I finally jumped down and backed into the bathroom just in case. The upside was that I got a new sheet. Which promptly ripped upon sitting down again.

The wait was now approaching 25-30 minutes, and that’s when I really started focusing on the thing I was avoiding. The blank sonogram screen screaming from my peripheral vision. That same screen that I’d seen on TV shows and movies filled with a potato-looking blob and a discernible heartbeat.  The exact screen that becomes everyone’s profile picture on Facebook as soon as they get past 12 weeks. This was the first time I’d seen a blank screen. And it had my name right at the top. My actual name typed in like a permanent record.

I could feel the power of this screen, the draw of this bad omen, and I vowed not to stare at it for too long because it started to haunt me. It punctured a part of me I didn’t realize was there. It was the swale filling up with water after three days of rain: I didn’t notice it until it rained enough to be right there at the surface.

There is a sign in our neighborhood that says “Stay off the Swales.” This very sign prompted me to research what exactly constituted a swale: was it the low-lying area filled with water, or the low-lying area itself? It’s the latter. The swale holds the water in one place to prevent the whole area from flooding. These areas of over-saturation are necessary to protect our safety. The problem is our culture says to avoid them, so we pretend they aren’t there. We put on faces of strength and dildo jokes, but in certain moments the swale gets over-saturated and we have to get wet. It’s there to protect us. Allowing myself to feel the pain of that blank sonogram will keep me healthy and focused on the path ahead, whatever lies in front of us.

It seemed like a such a cliche: a 35-year-old woman who can’t get pregnant and is upset about it. The truth is even if my family is just my husband and me for the rest of our lives, I would be happy. We have a great life together, and no news I can get during this process is going to shake that. I’m not sure I would have been able to say that until I fully felt the weight of not being able to have a child on that rainy first Monday of May.

So, I’m grateful for this swale and the clarity it gave me. I just hope I’ll be able to recognize the next one before it becomes a flippin’ lake.

Calling all you clingy, dependent types

5 Dec

The institution of marriage has been making headlines lately and being a newlywed, I noticed. National Public Radio reported a sociologist’s findings that marriage was now a matter of economics. It cited stats gleaned from the 2010 Census that 45 percent of 25-34 year olds are married. In 2000, it was 55 percent; in the 1960’s, 80 percent.

TIME reported on the state of modern marriage and found that while it may be on the decline overall, rates have remained fairly steady among educated people. The article goes on to explain the socioeconomic factors that might keep wedding bliss in the gaze of the erudite-on-paper. They cite more exposure to conflict-resolution skills and degree holders’ access to  jobs with flexible schedules, the argument being that a sick kid throws more of a wrench into the lives of shift workers than those who can go in late or leave early without threat of losing of an income. The more wrenches thrown into a marriage, the more stress, and the more stress, the more difficult it becomes to stay positive, etc. And according to Psychology Today, positive illusions are among the strongest predictors in relationship happiness.

Then there was this reader comment at the end of the TIME article:

“[M]arriage is for the clingy dependent [types] who need marriage as a reassurance that their life has meaning.”

Bitter, party of one, right?

Except maybe it’s true.

And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

I had to fight my initial reaction because I wouldn’t describe myself as clingy or dependent. Sure I’ve been both of those things before. Who hasn’t?

Okay, so you haven’t. Congratulations on being an emotional island.

But I don’t feel like those are boxes I have to check on a personality inventory. I’ve never been financially dependent on anyone other than my parents and that ended once I left college. For six years, I lived alone in a house I (still) own, and ever since I could remember, I’ve been comfortable being by myself–solitude brings clarity and  peace that I cherish.

Many months before meeting my husband, I ended a way too long term relationship after realizing we were living separate lives under the guise of being together. I was doing my thing and he was doing his. Sometimes we hung out.

This does not a relationship make.

It wasn’t a bad relationship, just the wrong one. While we have some great memories, it turned out we were happier doing our own things; we just removed the pressure to involve each other. And I think we’d both agree we’re much more fulfilled as a result.

You learn a thing or ten from living so independently while pretending to be in a partnership. The whole time you’re proclaiming to love your independence, what you secretly want is a partner, an extra set of (unresentful) hands in the world. And that means depending on another human being. Regularly.

We’re talking about more than finances too. TIME cites a Pew Research Study in which love wins out over money (and babies):

“Far more married adults say that love (93%), making a lifelong commitment (87%) and companionship (81%) are very important reasons to get married than say the same about having children (59%) or financial stability (31%). Unmarried adults order these items the same way.”

I teach English and journalism to ninth and tenth graders. My husband researches honeybees and termites. Clearly neither of us married for money. We married for the companionship, the security, and oh yeah, love.

And because of our love (and mutual respect), we do on occasion cling to one another for support and more importantly, perspective. You see, being truly independent means you live inside your own head too much, which makes you kind of selfish. I hate to admit that but it’s true. And I’ve been a cardinal offender.

Independent woman, that’s me!

Introspective woman, that’s way too much of me.

Introspection is considered to be a characteristic indicative of intelligence. Hamlet is heralded as one of Shakespeare’s smartest characters on account of all his introspecting. Of course when I first learned this I took it to mean that I was mad intelligent: Look at me self-analyzing! If only everyone else could be this self-aware. Then I remembered how much of a whiner Hamlet actually is:

“O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!” (2.2.550)

Just because he knows he’s a coward doesn’t erase the “poor me” tone. Sure, he’s got a lot on his plate. That whole “my uncle killed my father and is now sleeping with my mother” thing would propel most to the fetal position, but all those soliloquies, while full of beautifully crafted language, aren’t getting rid of killer King Claudius any faster. And Hamlet knows it:

“To be, or not to be: that is the question” (3.1.56).

Cue play within play, more introspection, and the death of all characters. This turned out to be a depressing example.

My point is that while it’s great to know thyself, it’s important to turn all that insight into action. My husband won’t let me give into insecurity for too long, he won’t let me fixate on financial matters like not having sold my house, and he’s always there to remind me of my assets. He’s also there to make sure I’m doing something positive to change my outlook. This alternative perspective keeps me from sulking and  propels me to change the things that are blocking my happiness.

Let’s face it: we all get insecure, we all feel lost at times, and we all think tomorrow is going to be as bad as today. My husband says to me something that I used to think was too simplified: “Tomorrow will be different.” But it usually is.

So do I find more meaning in life being married? Yes. Did I feel that my life was meaningless before I got married? Absolutely not. I don’t shape my identity around my husband nor does he mine, but we both chose to enter a partnership that strengthens us. Many people can bring out the worst in you, but my husband brings out the best in me: why wouldn’t I sign up for a lifetime of that?