theology&geometry

He stirs early, then comes back to me, sometimes with coffee on his breath. His hair is usually damp by then, and mussed. He wears black socks on his feet under pressed slacks. I like to watch him tie his tie, consider the results, and retie if needed. A few more sips of coffee and he’s looking at the clock on his phone, cussing at the minutes. Where did they go? I stand on the porch and kiss him on the mouth, then pad out to my car barefoot, wiping sleep out of my eyes, and back the car up so he can get out of the driveway. On productive days I go back inside, finish the coffee he left, and spend some time doing things: writing, photographing, freelancing, reading, gardening. Other days I melt into the couch and let the cats perch on top of me while I watch discs of Deadwood and Kids in the Hall. Some days I indulge myself with a nap around noon, but it never really refreshes. Just gives me odd dreams and makes me groggy and even less motivated to go to work.

On the weekend when we both get to sleep in, he stirs early and comes back to me, and we spend the morning hours laughing and out-sillying one another — inventing bad infomercials, bad products, bad bands, bad songs — our skin at times so close it fuses for a few minutes and then we sleep again, the sun teeming, mottled, through the shutters. Usually by then the cats have begun to suspect we’ve died in there and will never be coming back out, and they transmit their fear of an emptying food bowl via pained, persistent pleas with the door and its knob until I have my fill of insolence and slip out from under the sheets, hissing my anger at them as they greet me in the hallway and trot to their bowl to remind me of why I was put on this earth. It is then, in those minutes as he sleeps in my bed without me, that I am perhaps at my most domestic.

In the daylight I can see every cat hair tumbleweed and stray piece of lint on the floor. Coffee grounds on the counter top. Water spots in the bathroom. Dust on the sideboard. Mildew on the shower curtain. I turn the sprinklers on so the plants can get a drink and scrub the week’s detritus from the counter tops, placing each scattered glass I come across in the dishwasher. I boil water for coffee and hang coupons on the fridge as I wait for the grounds to steep. I gather damp towels and stray socks in the hamper and take inventory of what I’ve got left clean to wear. I empty the litter box and sweep up around it, fantasizing about the day I will be able to afford ceramic tile for the floor of the back room so stray bits of grit will no longer be able to hide under wonky cork tiles. I form neat piles of recyclables on the counter and haul them outside to the bin where they will sit until Thursday, when he will place them by the street without my even asking him to. I leaf through the week’s mail and shred most of it by hand before throwing it away. The rest goes into a pile, where I will decide what to do with it next week. (Spoiler alert: I will place it in a larger pile.)

It is me and my house in those hours — me setting right what the week’s living has wrought on the place that I have had a pretty intense love affair with now for nine months. It’s work and it takes time and is somewhat unpleasant but when I am in the mood to do it, it feels less like work than many other things I do.

When he shuffles into the living room to greet me and the day, I share what’s left of the coffee with him. He tells me it’s good and I can’t help but smile to myself. It wasn’t all that long ago that I wrote somewhere — a blog entry draft, an online dating profile, who knows — that sometimes I make a pot of coffee so good that I just want to have someone to share it with. I’ve got something much better than that right now.

The weekend I visited my parents for Father’s Day, my sister and nephews and I took a let’s-get-out-of-the-house sashay down to downtown Saltillo (I will NOT admit to accidentally leaving my brother’s giant diesel truck’s emergency brake on during the entire trip, and wondering why accelerating was such a pain in the ass), which included a trip into the Saltillo Landing Cafe/Grocery as well as a peek inside the Robertson family’s antiques store, which I had not been in before. Last time I went into the building, it was a gameroom-slash-knickknacks store being run by Clifton, an enterprising young man I had graduated high school with. I’m told he has run off to California — smart boy — and now his parents run the space and keep it stocked with some actually freaking awesome wares for reasonable prices (check out that link for a glimpse of an amazing baby blue vintage fridge; also just out of the frame is a $125 functional? floor radio from EONS AGO). My sister, always the one in our family to sniff out a deal, asked if we could sneak into the back room and see what wasn’t yet on the showroom floor. We’re sweet-talkin’ Southern gals, so naturally we got our way. And lo and behold, we stumbled upon that dresser (which I will henceforth refer to as a sideboard) above, as well as this chest of drawers. They were marked down from $40 apiece to $25. That’s right, math-heads, $50 for the set. I cleaned up the joy piss that ran down my leg an after some obligatory DO-I-REALLY-NEED-THIS-HOW-WILL-I-GET-IT-HOME hemming and hawing, I was leaving my number with the fill-in clerk (the proprietor’s mother-in-law, adorably) and a few days later I got the call that I could indeed have the pieces.

My brother delivered them to the house Saturday on the honor system; I haven’t paid a dime for these beauties yet, and the seller even sent along a can of paint for touch-ups, as she had planned to paint the pieces before selling them. While they could use some work — there are cigarette burns and some water damage and they both smell musty — I just kind of adore the color that they are, even if it clashes with my wall. There’s something sunbursty about that color, the way it darkens at the edges. And don’t even get me started on the hardware.

I originally had it in my head after the first viewing that I had some art deco on my hands but I don’t think that’s the case. I’m terrible at identifying furniture and architecture styles, and the internet has been surprisingly unhelpful in my sleuthing efforts. If you can look at this and tell me the style (other than mid-century modern, which is my closest guess, which probably means it’s anything but), I’d be mighty grateful. I feel like I really lucked out here, and I want to reiterate that it was my sister who pushed me to go for it. She could taste the bargain victory whereas I was merely smelling whiffs of it (I have never been good at thrifting, and I will never be a Dave or Amy and I mostly accept that).

Here is how a girl knows she has gone over the deep end into the homeownership bit of adulthood: She gets absolutely beside herself about all the weird and cool and old stuff at Memphis Waterworks and Memphis Market Central. I’m talking ancient doors, crumbly bricks from historic Memphis buildings, enormous church windows, soothing fountains, coppery hardware, the whole bit.

I harbor no illusions that I will ever be able to afford anything from either store, but it’s fun to imagine Candace Olson taking pity on me and buying a truckload of house makeover accent pieces to incorporate into the design she’s going to implement pro bono because I’m such a swell gal.

In all seriousness, though, I broke my damned bird bath Sunday afternoon while trying to unclog the (new) pump. That bastard is an algae-making machine, I tell you. So now I’m short a water feature. THE HORROR. So maybe if I save up enough dough, I can actually go back to Waterworks with the intention of bringing something home with me. Or I can stow away and stay the night and just pretend like I live there among all that cool shit, whichevs.

Also, kudos to the nautically themed booth operator’s designer for the hilarity, intended or not. (Although honestly, how could it not be?)

The other day I woke up early, put on some ratty clothes, and tromped around the back yard, where I raked leaves into a neat little pile and then shoved them into large black plastic trash bags and carried them to the curb. I remember before I ever bought a house, I’d ride through the Memphis streets and sneer at the houses with big bags of yard waste resting on their curbs. I always assumed these uppity homeowners were sending their yard waste to landfills. Where I came from, you either turned yard waste into mulch or you burned it or both; you didn’t ask the city to do anything with it. There was no city to ask. Then I got a house and it came with a decently sized yard and I realized that if I was going to get rid of the fifty billion metric tons of leaves that fell into my yard in the fall, I was going to need some help (since you can’t and shouldn’t just go lighting piles of leaves on fire, despite how awesome it smells and how warm it is, and how much it contributes to your desire for your neighbors to fear you entirely). So, yep. Bags of leaves on the curb, destined for organic waste heaven, until I can get my shit together enough to even contemplate a compost pile.

And then I sat on the back porch. The concrete was cool to the touch, even after baking for hours in the afternoon sun. We are in that hesitant breath before full-on spring: the fast-blinking, eye-rolling moment before the sneeze of seasonal change, where we will wake up one day and the trees will have tiny buds and the jagged daffodils will have pushed their way through the earth to say hello to the sun.

I sat on the porch and I watched. Red wasps and bumblebees were inspecting the flowering weeds. It took me a minute to stop freaking out about them flying around me, because I am insane. I tried to be all zen about it and not go fetch the Raid. My assumption is — always — that winged stinger-equipped beasts ALWAYS want to sting me, even if it means certain death for them. But I decided to just sit still, even when a hornet buzzed past my head. I cussed at it and then felt silly, like some paranoid Gulliver who thinks he’s under attack by a sprawling tiny army, but actually isn’t.

And as I sat there, still, and began to notice all the parts of the yard that were moving, it occurred to me that I had neighbors I’d never stopped to consider. Like the little red-breasted bird (robin?) who kept showing up in branches, on the roof, in the grass. He alighted and hopped close to me as I was raking and even when I gestured broadly, he didn’t flinch. The little grey squirrel that leapt from roof to fence and then disappeared into the branches. The tiny tiny tiny little chipmunk I caught hiding in the bushes, that outran my camera. I am just gobsmacked at the thought that these animals have been there for months, possibly years, and here I am, moving in and possibly rocking their little ecosystem with the slight changes I’ve made to the homestead.

I put fresh water in the bird bath and came inside to Google ways of cleaning a bird bath (dilute some bleach, check), since even fresh water and a blast from the hose couldn’t remedy the mildewy grossness. That got me to thinking about bird feeders. And that got me to driving to Lowe’s to finally spend a gift card I’d been saving for a special Lowe’s occasion. I eyed a squirrel-proof feeder and some songbird feed, and then caved and bought some pansies and snapdragons and hyacinths and even a sweet little pink daffodil bulb too. And a couple of nice new pots since a couple of mine had busted over the winter. I don’t know how it happened. It just did. And I am not ashamed to go into/remain in debt for the benefit of flowers and birds. I feel confident that Bank of America will understand this reasoning, when and if I ever need to spill it to them.

Tuesday, I watched from the bathroom window as the birdfeeder — which seemingly had been empty all afternoon — shifted under the weight of four birds. Two more were perched on the roof of the shed nearby, waiting their turn. The birds would leave the feeder and then perch on the bird bath, just three feet away. And then fly away. To where? And then back.

Tonight I got home from work and went directly to the shed to pot the new plants. It took some time to pierce the new resin pots with a screwdriver a few times, but soon enough I was shoveling potting soil into them and trying to position the bulbs and roots in a way that looked pretty and also wouldn’t result in instant death. I checked my phone for the weather forecast and got paranoid — for basically no reason — that if I left the newly potted plants outside the shed overnight, they’d die. I might have attachment issues. So tonight, the plants will be in the shed. Soon enough I’ll put them outside and trust them to weather the elements. Just … not yet.

It’s been three months now that I’ve been in the house. My house. I still trip a little when I say that. It’s weird, almost as weird as saying, “I’ve been flying my plane now for three months” or “I’ve been piloting this yacht for 90 days.” I mean, who would trust me with a plane or a boat?

But here I am in this house, this lovely little house with the dark wood (?) floors and the drafty windows and the ridiculously optimistic shade of sunshine on the living-room walls. This humble little house with a shared driveway and flagstone walkway. The plantation shutters and the textured walls. The window over the kitchen sink where I can watch the birds in the birdbath. My house, with the rickety attic ladder and the peeling cork flooring in the back room. My bunker, my castle, my compound.

I’ll be honest: In many ways, it just hasn’t quite sunk in that it’s really all mine yet. It feels like mine in a way that my previous apartments — especially my last one at The Mayflower — have felt like mine. That’s because I have a tendency to get into a space and start immediately plastering things on the walls and hanging knick-knacks from cabinet knobs to make the place feel like home. I like to see my trinkets everywhere I look; to me, that’s what makes a home a home.

But here I am in a space where I can literally do whatever I want in every single room, and I’m still somewhat hamstrung by this feeling that maybe I shouldn’t change anything. That comes partially from the very awesome fact that I bought this house in great condition and that there wasn’t a single thing that needed doing. Not even painting (except for maybe the hallway; it’s a weird peachy sponge-painted color I’m not crazy about). So in a lot of ways, it feels like I’m renting a lovely little house and some day I’ll have to give it back in the condition I found it in. I’m scared to put my mark on it. The marks I leave on places are usually not good ones.

I can’t help but wonder if this feeling will simply change with time (three months is an infancy of a residency anywhere), or if spring will help coax a more fierce ownership out of me. I was talking to Aunt B and saraclark over the weekend about housey stuff, and I recalled when Aunt B experienced her first spring in her new house, and how things began popping up out of the ground and blooming and she just got to kind of watch her wintery homestead come to life. I am excited about the gardening possibilities, and seeing what’s been lying just under the dirt all winter, just waiting for some warmth as a cue to come up and meet the sun. It’s the daffodils I imagine I’ll see first, any day now, despite the snow that seems to come with odd regularity lately.

When the time comes, I plan to let my mother and my grandmother loose in my yard so they can tell me exactly what plants and flowers to put where. I am holding on to the hope that I have inherited even a fraction of their flower-whispering abilities. Because honestly, the thought of looking out my windows and seeing a yard splashed with color and shape fills me with so much joy and longing that I just about can’t stand it.

So. The house and me, we’re getting along just fine. With a lot of help from friends, I’m slowly filling the rooms with furniture so that they’re not so sad and unused. I’ve got some big plans for the back room, the one with the wall-to-wall windows (the one I’m calling the catnasium right now, yes, I’ll admit it). It involves new flooring and an actual bed. I’ve got to get serious about curtains before next winter. I would like to plot ways of getting a screened-in porch just off the back doors.

Lots to do. But we’re on my time here. And that is just about as awesome as it gets.

I was having a big time out in the yard photographing the glassy branches when a big oak limb in my neighbor’s yard snapped and fell to the ground, bringing a power line (or cable line? not sure) to the ground with it. I thought for a split second she’d coming running outside and see me there at midnight and suspect I’d done something to bring the branch down, but then I realized the bigger threat to me was the big oak limbs above my head in my own yard, which were swaying and tinkling and cracking with every breath of wind. And I hauled my ass back inside and called it a night.

Listening to music while in the bathroom just got a lot easier thanks to this Lifehacker tip. I don’t really know how they got an iPhone to fit like that into a pint glass, though. I have some snazzy pint glasses (thanks to Fancycwabs) and my phone barely shimmies down in them halfway. I do, however, have two of these awesome midcentury red diamond glasses, which I inherited from my great grandmother after she passed away. One was slightly cracked so I was paranoid to drink out of it. It’s got a new home now. The phone fits perfectly in there, and the red goes with my black, white, and red bathroom motif.

So, neat.

[Project 365]

I had some folks over to warm the new house up a bit, and Dave brought over a bag of liquid goodies for his latest Oh Dear God Why Taste Test. The twist this time is that several people got in on the bit for a little group tasting action. Awww yeah. Cue sexy eggnog-gulping music here. (I’ll link to his post once it’s up.)

The insanity was upped when the fellas decided to combine boozy eggnog with Chocovine and a bourbon floater. They all claimed it was pretty delicious. I’m happy I sat that one out; looking at those layers makes me want to vom right now.

I do so appreciate the visitors last night. It’s the first time I’ve had more than a couple of people in the house at one time, and it felt nice to see people milling about and sort of making themselves at home and laughing and cussing and spilling things. The kitchen became a clown car of sorts, with us constantly increasing the number of people who could fit in there. I’m looking forward to more gatherings and potlucks and, when it warms up, adventures in the back yard.

Cheers, y’all!

[Project 365]

I’ve always had hand-me-down bedroom furniture. For the past 14 or so years, I’ve drug the same crumbling suite of furniture around with me from my parents’ house to apartment to apartment to apartment to apartment. It served me well but when I moved, it was time to bid it farewell.

Enter the first bedroom suite I’ve ever picked out for myself, and paid for myself. Slick, huh?

[Project 365]