There's a Lot of Bad Wood Underneath the Veneer

I made a new friend from someone's old friend last Friday. An absolutely stunning, naturally blonde "cool girl." We were talking and she mentioned a man friend, older, who really just enjoys her company. A sugar daddy who don't want no sugar. We joked and laughed and now the term is officially "Splenda Daddy," and you're welcome.

I'm sitting in my kitchen floor last night. My back hurts. There is no skin left on my fingertips. Before me are the cabinet doors I've yanked off the hinges, removed the hardware, and started stripping. I got to thinking I sure could use one of them Splenda Daddies. Except, just to come over on weekends and maybe help with my house projects, or just have a beer, or maybe offer some advice. I realized, oh wait, that's just a Daddy. I need one of those. I know exactly how my father's hands got to be like granite as I do this project. And my gods, I miss that man. I wonder what he'd say of the job I'm doing. I honestly don't know.

I love this place. If I didn't I wouldn't be pouring myself into it until I'm empty. I have a list days long. Pressure wash the patio, patch and paint the walls, hang the TV, and so it goes. Right now, strip the cabinets, Kilz the insides, paint the whole lot, paper the shelves, put the hinges and handles back in place, and hang them back on the frames. Unpack my kitchen. Bake decadent things, distribute to patient neighbors who haven't complained one time about the noise or the smell. I've been quiet. Nose to the grindstone, as the old timers say. I'm making a home of this beautiful light, perfect coziness, and a skeleton built like they don't do anymore. You ought to see these baseboards. Love, the real thing, in architecture, is in these fine details. And it will be here when I'm finished with it.

As I do, I've had so many crises of confidence. I had a couple of these doors that were never so much as primed and lord, they straight bowed up when I put Citristip on them. I have found a use for the thousand palette knives I have that I will never use. Make a good, flexible, grippable paint scraper. I'm sure the BRI enthusiasts will love that. 

I was wide awake by 4am this morning. Speaking of Charles Gable. I think he comes to visit me on these mornings. And that is a comfort. By 6am, confidence crisis and pity-party of one until I was sitting in my living room floor sobbing. I can't sleep worth a damn with everything all chaos and banker boxes. I can see this place, the furniture all together and in its place, the walls smooth and painted shades of blue and green, my posters and photos, and  something of my own hanging on the walls. And also, we'll be getting one of those Marissa Mustard originals for this space. Go find her. Fall in love the way I did when I first saw her door corners hanging at Flicker. A few years later and I know her. She wants me to give her an embroidery lesson. I'm endlessly flattered. She's going to make the coolest stuff and then I'll be in awe of that kind of her art too.

For that part of my little artist's soul, it feels really good to be home. And that part of me really feels home in this place. I will come into my own as an artist here and I just know it. I'll never be rich or famous, but I'll grown and settle into what I should be. That's beyond exciting to me, even at my age.

Getting settled. It's always a whole process. I did not quite anticipate this much of a process. I'm ready. I know, you're supposed to enjoy all of this journey (like having a newborn, for real) and you'll look back and remember this as wonderful and perfect and you'll long and ache for it. But you might not want to do it again. I'm okay with that. I think I could reasonably stay here for a very long time. I don't like to say "forever" about anything because things will change and then you'll feel like you abandoned something. This place will always be mine. I will leave a mark that won't wash off with a new coat of paint and a backsplash. Kim did that here too. She left some of herself. I can see her beautiful smile in the sunlight of early afternoon through the window and in the morning glory vine climbing the far end of the patio. In the bug spray and Christmas lights she left. In the curtains in my bedroom that will go with everything, and the switchplate that could have been one I chose myself.

I've chosen a color for the cabinets. I can't help but wonder what Nanny would think. Pale green-blue and white in the kitchen. Bright and clean. I think she'd like it. She'd never choose it herself, but she'd say something like I got Jean's taste. Her beloved sister. Whom she worshipped. Whom she was certain had the best taste of anyone. I miss hearing Nanny talk about Jean. Maybe I'll ask cousin Debbie for a story. 

Ope, just set up the autopay for my mortgage. For my first mortgage payment. As a homeowner. It sounds so funny, but I felt like that was the one thing keeping me from feeling like an accomplished person. Neither of my parents ever owned a home. They always wanted to. They always talked about it. As did I. Don't wait. I'm literally spending $800 less a month to own a place (and that counts CoA fees, taxes, and insurance) than I was renting a place I never loved. And no one is going to tell me I can't paint the walls here. And that's a lot of concert tickets. That is all.

I've been quiet about a few things. I've failed to tell my best friend that my kid is currently staying with his girlfriend. I don't like her. I didn't like her before she cheated on him twice. I've literally always liked his girlfriends. I thought he'd marry that last one. The dark-haired athletic one with a head full of spiders who loved me and whom I loved. I miss that young woman. He does too. He won't say it out loud, but man, he still loves her.

I miss him. I cried the other morning missing him. My sweet mama's boy, love of my life, my reason. Now what am I supposed to do? It's quiet and I know what I'll come home to, but man, I sure do miss hugging him. He cried the day he left. I did not. He's an adult. He can come home one time. After that, Mama has to say no. I can do it. Ask him about that George Foreman grill.

He sent me a text today of a picture of this barrel full of feed corn. Cheap. I joked that we could make enough popcorn for me to see a movie and he said he'd still have to miss the best part to go get me a refill. 

They's a lot less groceries getting eaten around here. It took a little while to adjust to the change. I don't eat that much, and boy, a fella his age does. It's quieter. No doors at 3am. The only dishes ever in the sink are my own. I can keep beer in the fridge again. I have literally never lived alone in my life. All things considered, I think I'm settling in to it well. It's certainly giving me insight about a certain man who'd always lived alone and why it never occurred to him that other people share spaces.

I'm on my little patio in the rain right now. American Aquarium on my playlist. The sun has just started coming back out since about 3. It really is the perfect outside space for a city. There used to be a large tree right out in front of me, but it's gone now. I can see the back side of the neighboring building with the same red brick as mine. The whole block is basically the same four-up units. I say I live in a condo, but the whole "condo" is just four units. One is the COA president and sometimes his kid, above me a young woman whose schedule I'm insanely curious about, who is always cooking garlic and it smells so lovely. The fourth man, I've only been told exists. He's literally never been here when I am. 

The birds are so excited. I think my neighbor/COA president feeds the birds. And has great taste in music. Sometimes he goes on his patio and sings along. His girlfriend is really pretty.

I guess it's officially been a month since I bought a house. Funny, this is way better than being a newlywed, but a lot the same. Idiosyncrasies. I definitely need patio furniture. This camp chair is great, but I need an ottoman. As soon as that man comes with his pressure washer, I can lay out the rug and start working on this space. I just realized that out here there is one wall that's, I don't know, 8 feet of not brick. I wonder if it's brick back there.

I suspect that being alone so much has resulted in drinking too much. Or maybe it's the handy stuff. I see how the drunk house painter is a whole thing. I can shampoo a rug with a good beer buzz like nothing you've ever seen.

I guess I need to go find myself some solid food that's more than a string cheese. The critters out here are eating me alive. Maybe I ought to screen it in so the cats can come out. You think Blanche would destroy screening? I really don't know.