Checkers and a milkshake?

“Every morning in Florida smells like vacation.” Me. Yesterday.

We are adapting to the new norm that is life in Florida. Every day is beautiful. The sun is out 98% of the time. Dresses or long pants are for interviews or date nights (the dresses—Dan only wears long pants for work or interviews.) But while we are still on Lake Limbo, we can see the shore, and it’s looking pretty good.

As Dan predicted, after weeks of sending out resumes and listening to the sound of crickets in reply, as soon as I had my foot surgically altered and encased in an awkward boot, the phone started to ring with requests for in-person interviews. Lots of good stuff pending; more to follow on that. Dan is also in the running for a few positions in which he is genuinely interested. Keep those fingers crossed.

But prior to that, we stuck with the plan we had before we left Wisconsin. We Will Not Look For A House Until We Have Jobs. Period. But with nothing else to do, we started looking at houses 36 hours after we got here. We walked away from the termite mound on 8^th Ave in Safety Harbor and then fell in love with a place on 11^th.

Great location, a separate guest space that could have added AirBnb income, a lovely patio and pool with a nice yard. It was priced pretty high, and based on the comparable sales in the area we came in with a very reasonable cash offer. Like so many of the properties we’ve looked at, this one was investor owned. The counter offer came back $40,000 higher than our offer and just $4,000 lower than list price. Reasonable? No. We countered again; having decided it was worth the extra if we could meet halfway.

Confession here—I don’t like our realtor. He’s a young guy who is on the phone 80% of the time we are with him. He assumes but asks no questions. Dan thinks he’s OK, but at times I slip into Bitch Mode without realizing it.

Our realtor showed us one property that I dismissed—rather loudly—out of hand. Doors in the wrong places, living room much too small, hated the porch, who’d call that a yard, etc. We got in the car and Dan turned to me. “You sound like those people on the crappy TV shows who are looking at houses and can’t find one nice thing to say. Someone just did that to my house in Wisconsin and it tore the heart out of me. When we go to the next house could you PLEASE just put on a happy face?” I got the message.

The next house was a bank-owned property going up for auction “soon”. As we gave the house a cursory look we asked for more specifics on the auction – he didn’t know – would have to get to a computer – will call you later when I follow-up on your pending counter offer for 11th. With a smile plastered on my face I looked around. The house had the most hideous floor I have ever seen—black and white 12” ceramic tiles in every room and closet. Dan loved it. No problem if you don’t mind decorating with life-size checkers or going for that mid-50s diner look.

The cabinets in the kitchen were…plastic…wait, coated in plastic…a bright, shiny white plastic (that Dan loved). The corners of my mouth ached. And look, the stovetop has a matching checkerboard pattern contact paper! And a final realization that the kitchen had no space for a refrigerator? Awesome. With the perfect house still a possibility we drove home.

Fast forward to 8pm that night and the realtor calls to tell us the investor/owner countered again with no additional drop in price but an offer to “loan us the difference at 6%.” As previously instructed by us, the realtor had declined on our behalf (actually told them to pound sand, an apt metaphor here in Florida.) Oh, and by the way, the auction house closes tonight at 10pm; do you want to put in a bid?

Dan and I stared at each other over the rims of our (repeatedly filled) wine glasses. My brain frantically tried to remember the details of the house – neighborhood and location nice, no garage, ugly ceramic tile floor throughout, kitchen remodel needed, bedrooms and bathrooms were OK, yard seemed nice. Dan’s brain clicked away as well – neighborhood seemed friendly, location perfect, no garage, three bedrooms, two baths, and GREAT looking tile floor with a kitchen that needs nothing, nice yard.

We suggested an amount that would top the lowest bid, was under asking but was hopefully enough to scare away investor flips. We grabbed a refill, then we waited for 10pm.

At 10, the phone rang. We had the house.  

The next morning I woke, staring at the ceiling and heard Dan say, “Did we buy a house last night?” Yes, I said, I believe we did. We waited 13 years to buy the house on Kavanaugh. This one took 10 minutes. I wasn’t paying close attention to house details the first time, so I really needed to see it again. We made arrangements to meet the realtor.

It did, in fact, have the ugliest floor ever, that Dan absolutely loved. Tears were shed and harsh words were exchanged. We reached a compromise. Most of the tile is going.

It’s a great house overall and the alterations needed are minor compared to projects we’ve tackled in the past. We’ll be moving a doorway, taking out some half walls, redoing the cabinets, painting throughout and putting down a laminate floor to cover the tile that Dan now despises. The backyard has room for a pool and we are two-blocks away from Old Tampa Bay. And when the house is finished (we close in July, give us a few months) and you come to visit, we’ll take a short .4-mile walk into Safety Harbor to enjoy great food, sightseeing and wonderful shopping.

Willow in the Wind

After almost 37 years of marriage and a heavy reliance on my husband to fix things, I don't even know where to begin. Dan, on the other hand, is heavy into processing the options...please enjoy the guest writer.

Many years ago in New Orleans I was talked into meeting with a tarot card reader/fortune teller. Other than fertilizer for the lawn, I have never spent $25 for such crap. After sifting through a few cards and asking a few silly questions, she announced, “You are very change averse.” That was the quote. The needle snapped off the BS meter as I left. “Me? Change averse?” I am the poster child for Willow In the Wind. I threw the comment off to the side for many years.

Recently, however, I have had to take a new look at those words. As much as it stings, I am the proud son of a hoarder. And the proud son of a neat freak. Somewhat like Robert Mitchum in Night of the Hunter, I have SAVE and TOSS tattooed metaphorically on my knuckles.

Paula laughs, but it is a painful place to live, and over the last few months it has been really tough. Selling/throwing out/giving away most of a lifetime’s worth of items to make the trip down here to Florida was agonizing for most of me, but liberating for two toes and a finger. But we are here—set up in 624 square feet of glory, surrounded by the few items that made the cut. No wonder the dog is happy Every Single Day--he made the cut. But that brings us to now.

We had a plan. It was a good plan, forged by many nights of discussion over many glasses of wine. We cannot look for a house until we have jobs. Anything else would be stupid. We need the MACRO vs. MICRO view of our situation. Team Johnson—stay focused on the goal. Plan the Dive and Dive the Plan. Deviation = Disaster. Ignore the small stuff for the greater good. MacArthur at Bataan.

Within three weeks we found a house. We have no jobs. We have an accepted offer. We are idiots.

Today we met with a home inspector, as well as an Electrical and Plumbing contractor, and an Engineer to look at the massive code violations we learned about this week after a one-on-one with the city Building Inspector. Until today we were unaware of the ongoing termite damage to the foundation and attic, the exterior walls pulling away from the central roof joists, the bits of concrete and shit packed under the floorboards to make the floors feel solid. Did you know that the color of termite poop shows what they are currently eating? On today’s menu: Subfloor!

The logical, calm prospective buyer would run, I tell you, run away. But I stood on the roof--which was as soft as a mattress--then went down the ladder to look into the crawlspace at the joists that had been wood, but were now a cellulose version of Swiss cheese. The hand that spelled out SAVE was throbbing. The TOSS hand cowered.

Now that five certified building experts have said, “Umm, have you thought about buying it, tearing it down and starting over?” there is a really small voice in my head that is hesitantly suggesting “Ummm, sorry to bother you, but have you thought about tearing this shack down and starting over?” SAVE hand reaches for the throat. TOSS hand deflects the blow. New voice sings "All you have to change is everything you are."

We have 14 more days to complete our inspections and conclude an offer, or walk away. The neighborhood is super cool. The guesthouse—if we can get an after-the-fact use permit for it, rocks. The main house has one outstanding feature—it’s flammable. (I AM SOOO KIDDING! SERIOUSLY STATE FARM, CAN’T YOU TAKE A JOKE?)

Lots of talking in our future.

We are on a Great Adventure. We have never been closer as a couple, and that has had good and not-so-good implications. We will never look back on the last few months as being great times. But if we can pull this off… If we can turn this termite mound into the home we know it can be…If we can be sitting by the side of the pool in a year or so next to a cool guest house and a revamped home…If we are regulars at a few of the places on Main Street, Safety Harbor, Florida—2.3 blocks away—then we win. Hands down.

Music that resonates:

Hazard to Myself - Pink

Agnes Was Well Loved and Raised Chickens

Dan has learned this from the neighbors: There’s Mary next door (her dad bought the lot where her house stands today for $150), DeeDee (and her daughter’s puppy) across the street, Woody (his father built “most of the neighborhood”), Ed (leaf removal for $25 bucks), Chris (man-bun with shaved sides), Jack (beyond wrinkled) and Jeff who came by to rent a ladder. Dan’s been talking (I’ve been listening) and has been informed that Agnes lived here for about 20-years. She raised chickens in a fenced in area of the yard and her husband lived here occasionally, when he wasn’t incarcerated. This is 3^rd Avenue NE in Largo, Florida, the temporary location of Villa Johnson South.

724 3rd Ave NE  Largo, FL  33770

We landed here on Monday, March 25^th at 9:30 in the morning. The street is a quiet cul-de-sac, the trash is picked up twice weekly and we are close to a lot of shopping options. The beach is a quick 10-minute drive away. We quickly connected with cousins who live in the vicinity. We take walks around the neighborhood, I’ve gotten a library card and overall it’s been a gentle landing.

This house is a glorious 624-square feet, with eight windows, five rooms, three closets, and two points of ingress/egress. The realtor measured our former living room as 20’ X 25’. That’s 500 square feet. Add 124 more and you’ve got this house. Halfway through unloading the truck the guys had to stop bringing things into the house because we couldn’t move around.

#1 - Living Room (Dog added for scale)

#2 - Kitchen (Dan and dog added for scale)

#3 - Bathroom, after plumbing fix

Day one I made the serious mistake of thinking the toilet was functional. Yes, Carl, poop is still funny, but never so funny as when it backs up into your bathtub. And a good seven hours later we got the plumber’s diagnosis, too much toilet paper, three squares only, please! He’s been here twice, because, as it turns out Agnes hasn’t lived here for over five years, and the large tree in the back yard has invaded all available pipes. Every time we flush we cross our fingers. (Dan note: Agnes died on January 5, 2010 at 3:30 am in a hospice. Her kids came at two that afternoon and took what they wanted. The house sat empty for five years. Thanks neighbor Mary for the info and sorry you have to live with your grandson’s girlfriend who is a hoarder.)

Backyard-buried treasure

Our first Sunday was spent digging, uncovering a walkway between the house and the laundry “annex” after removing three inches of dirt and dead leaves. Florida is buried treasure country, right? Second Monday, and the plumber is here again to investigate why the washer (four towels max) causes soapy water to bubble up in the newly revealed exterior plumbing stack.

The one thing I am worried about is dental care. According to the National Institute of Dental & Craniofacial Research, the average adult between the ages of 20 and 64 has 24.92 remaining teeth. After having four removed during orthodontia and four wisdom teeth removed, I have 24. I’m already below the average. And based on the neighbors we’ve met, this street is definitely on the lower end of the bell curve.

(Dan edits: Before we moved here, Paula and I discussed at length that this was an opportunity to reinvent ourselves. We didn’t have to be the old Dan and Paula, or the old Ripley. As I’ve walked through the Home Depot, Lowes, Winn Dixie or Publix, I am encountering tons of old white people. TONS. The guys in the new Mercedes or BMW convertibles are even older. Seriously dude, if you are intimidated by a straight six 1960 Ranchero on the highway, you need to be in a golf cart.

The axiom that Florida is “Death’s Waiting Room” is true. But this neighborhood is not. It’s like our first house in Riverwest, when money was tight, good beer was rare, but parties were constant. This is a young, vibrant, but poorer part of town. We have lived in a stratified atmosphere for many years, when picking up the tab was easier than figuring out who had the iced tea and who had the appetizer. When people asked how much something cost and I had no idea. When neighbors owning a brewery or large business were passé. “Of course we’ll be in Mexico diving this year.” “Have you SEEN what the rates went up to at Pier House in Key West?” When having four cars seemed—too few (there was one glorious day I had seven).

This is a young, friendly, vibrant neighborhood where every introduction ends in “Now if you need a hand with anything…”

No, we won’t talk politics, or orthodontia, or why parking on the lawn is bad, or why your rottie/pit-bull seems to bark all the time. Ripley is acting like a puppy with all of the new kids in the neighborhood. My young snaggle-tooth neighbor Chris correctly identified the Ranchero as 1960, and guessed that the taillights were Buick, “1961?” 1960. “We bleed blue on this block” was his response.

Wisconsin Dan, unfortunately, would have broad-brushed these folks as, well, I am embarrassed to say. Florida Dan, who is on a tight budget until one of us has a job, is seeing things a lot differently. When my neighbor Jeff asked today to rent my ladder (he had a $200 hedge trimming job but didn’t have a ladder!) I said take it, and he offered his driver’s license as collateral. He offered $25, but I said make it a 12-pack and we’ll share it. He returned the ladder tonight—the beer is forthcoming. Florida Dan is cool with that. What’s the rush?

We’ve made the move. We have a lot to learn about living in Florida and about ourselves. Change isn’t easy, and big changes are the hardest of all. While we live in Agnes’ house and get to know her neighbors, the former beneficiaries of free eggs, we will be open to reinvention and the kindness of strangers.

Limboland

Dan and I have been guests in Limboland for a few months now. Not the cool Caribbean dance or the religious limbo. That limbo defined as “an intermediate, transitional, or midway state or place.” Ours is a strange place marked by periods of great joy and deep sadness, but mostly by long periods of nothingness. It’s nothingness combined with anxiety because we just are not sure what is coming next. Limboland is filled with questions and answers just over the horizon. But the distance to the horizon is a mirage that defies measurement. Maybe tomorrow…or tomorrow…or tomorrow.

It’s not that we don’t have a plan. It’s that the plans of others need to line up with ours, and therein lies the problem. We are in a state of wait. Wait for the next offer on the house. Wait for decisions from potential employers. Do nothing and keep the house pretty while we wait for the next showing. Leave the house while strangers walk hoards of people through, again and again. Wait with the dog at the local coffee shop, keeping him on a short leash at the fire pit while he eyes up treats other patrons are eating.

In Limboland you own very little. Things that had both great sentimental and perhaps financial value a few months ago are nearly worthless today. Or are sold on Craigslist for pennies. Or eagerly given to friends and family. Fridays no longer mean the start of the weekend—they mean the dumpsters will be empty, ready for the next load. Things are saved from the fire pit at the last moment. Things are stacked in the garage waiting to be hauled cross-country to be stored in someone else’s basement. Residents of Limboland travel light.

I don’t mean to complain, we are actually in a great place and we do know there will be an end to this. It’s just so foreign to both Dan and I. We are used to being very busy. Currently untethered from our routine, we’ve had a hard time adjusting. We know the “end” has us living and working in Florida, on the gulf. The sunshine and palms wait for us as we neatly (can’t have a messy house) sort through our belongings. And without a move date, or a decision from an employer, it’s an activity without an end. In Limboland you live like squatters in a clean, sterile house that looks a lot like yours, but without the soul.

Change and transition is never easy. If we could have created our own perfect path from one point to the next it would never be as messy as it is right now. We’d have answers to every question – in fact, we’d have no questions. Both Dan and I are taking a lot of advice from our great adult sons, who’ve taken the leap, moved across the country and are happy with the change. They did it successfully, and not without bumps. They share with us tips about quickly acclimating to our new location and successfully making new connections. That, in and of itself, is odd – they usually call us for advice.

But in Limboland there is a broader message. It is not advertised, and many folks—I suspect—miss it. It took us a while to see it, and as it slowly sinks in, we know family members and friends who will have a much harder time than us. For some it might be impossible. Our advice, should you enter Limboland.

• It’s the memories, not things. Memories weigh nothing—things have weight and hold you down. Get Rid of the Weight.
• You have no control over the decisions—or indecisions—of others. Take your very best shot, learn from it and move on. It’s their loss, and you will succeed.
• As long as you are a team you are strong. Alternate who is in the Pit Of Despair and who is on the top of Optimistic Mountain. You may change places several times a day, but keep talking.
• The dog will be confused. Let him sleep in the bed for a few minutes every morning. Someone threw out his box of toys, and he’s been through the whole being abandoned thing once before. Let him know that this time, he’ll be coming along on the adventure. 

We’ll get there. In the meantime we attempt to adjust to Limboland and remain optimistic that no later than tomorrow, we’ll get at least one answer to one question. And if not tomorrow, then the day after that.

Halcyon Days

We're in the midst of sorting and packing. We've been making decisions about items in storage spaces that have been untouched for years. The boys came home for Christmas and had to look at, and disposition items, they thought would be safely stored at their parent’s house forever. We are at the cliff, the point where the next step forward is a huge change that neither Dan nor I were truly prepared to take for a few more years. 

And yet, I think about why I started this blog, and it was to ready my mind for that big move to a warmer climate and a new beginning. Dan has been ready to turn that snow blower into a fountain for a long time now.

In December, my job was eliminated, just business and nothing personal. Except that, of course it is personal. It’s about me, and about what I contributed, and to what extent that contribution was valued. My professional currency became valueless and it was at that point they let me go. The company is heading in a new direction that didn’t include me and it is just business.

How arrogant of me to think I’m special, because of course I'm not, this has happened to so many people before me, my husband included. And now we are here, at the end of almost 20 years in the same beautiful house and a very special neighborhood, with neighbors that are not likely to be duplicated. And we sort and we pack. Even the dog is confused. It looks like something big is happening, yet no one leaves or takes him to the kennel, but everything is different.

I’m not sure where this story ends. I’m not done working yet. Neither is Dan. I’m very optimistic about two different employment opportunities, in two different cities, in southern states. They want to talk to me in person and I’ll be an enthusiastic participant in those conversations.

And yet, what a wonderful house this has been, on an incredible street, in an incredible community. Such great friends so close by. My heart aches to think about leaving.

The real-estate agent is optimistic. Great old house, well cared for, premium value, sellers market. The home stager was sweet as she complimented us on all of our personal touches and let us know exactly what to remove. No distractions allowed to confuse potential buyers. “They need to see the house and not what you’ve done to make it your own.” So we sort and pack and neuter the house, our home.

Tears roll down my cheeks. It is the end of these halcyon days.

Beach? Book!

A vacation, for me, must meet at least one of a few criteria.

• A meaningful experience.

• A visit with one or both of my children and their spouses.

• Relaxation and time "off the grid."

• Warmer weather than my current hometown.

I’ll take any one of the above and optimally, all of the above to call it a success. The one non-negotiable item, however, is a good book. I can’t call it a true vacation unless I’ve devoured a good book.

And when I say book, I mean a printed work of fiction or nonfiction, on sheets of paper bound together within covers. The kind of object that needs a physical bookmark. The kind of object that absorbs your affection for its form while also absorbing sunscreen, splashes from the pool, raindrops, food stains, and spilled wine. The kind of object that is always in airplane mode and does not need to be stowed during takeoff and landing. The kind of object that can be passed along limitlessly and enjoyed until if finally falls to pieces.

It’s called a beach book. A single inquiry of female friends, any good beach book suggestions? usually results in more titles and authors than can possibly be consumed. Generally, a good beach book is a light read, a bit salacious, well written and not too long. You can dig in to read and put it down without too much angst to participate in vacation activities. It should enhance the vacation rather than overtake your agenda.

I happened upon my latest selection by chance. Given a few options by my book club buddies I couldn’t find any of the titles at the locally owned bookstore. Forced to browse (oh, please, twist my arm) I was pulled in by covers (pastels are often a good choice) and titles. I flip each book over for signs that it’s a part of a series; I dislike being dropped into the middle of characters with backstories previously defined. I read reviews and the source of the review. I finally pick up a book with a dark, artistic cover. The reviews positively glow, and oh, there’s one from NPR, nice. Just under 500 pages – enough for a good week of off and on reading.

I spent my vacation in Key West, with periodic detours to 1920’s London. I was a voyeur into the lives of a widow and her spinster daughter, renting out the top floor of their upper class home to “paying guests” (certainly NOT lodgers as that would be low class). I watched a forbidden romance bloom and grow, I agonized over the traumatic events and consequences that followed and brought home 100 unread pages to thoroughly enjoy on my final Sunday of vacation. I also swam, napped, ate great meals and enjoyed evening activities with wonderful friends.

I’m a reader. I love a great book, especially if suggested by a friend. I’m happy to share a book and if I suggest a book, it’s because I think it will speak in some way to the reader. So, no e-Readers for me. Give me a bound book, let me hold it, read it, love it, stain it, watch the progression of the bookmark from beginning to end, and then share it with others. My beach read? The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters. I’d be happy to lend it, just let me know.