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I like living with other people.
I’m an only child and I grew up in a big sprawly house in a big sprawly neighborhood, and both felt mostly empty most of the time. College dorms were a revelation. Someone to talk to, guaranteed, even at three in the morning. People in the lounge in pajamas. Friends cooking more than enough to share.
Since then I’ve always chosen to live with people. I’ve been handed seamlessly from one house to the next, and with only one exception they’ve all been great. In Brooklyn I lived with two fabulous gay boys and their miniature dog and all their hair products, and in Amsterdam I lived with Francesca from Italy who had never made pasta. Even when Beth and I moved to Eugene and found our very own place, we decided to rent out a room. I like having people around.
Which is why it’s surprising how much I’m enjoying living alone. By which I do not mean that I am Getting By. I mean I am really enjoying living alone. I can’t rent the extra room yet as I originally planned, because there is so much work to do on the house, and because renters might request things like heat and use of the kitchen sink. But I really don’t mind at all. Between work and classes and soccer and kickball and friends and assorted Portland diversions, I’m hardly home anyway. So when I do get home it’s nice to turn up the radio and throw my sweater on the floor and drink from the juice carton. In fact, I’m kind of turning into a bachelor.
My fridge is a bachelor fridge: beer and takeout and condiments. My “bed” is on the floor. There are tools everywhere. And I’ve found myself saying bachelor things, things like, I’m not seeing other people, but I’m not Not Seeing Other People. Things like, I love you babe, but I’m just not sure we can make it work right now. And after these things come out of my mouth I go home by myself and it feels Good.
And I can’t say with certainty that I prefer living solo to living with housemates, because despite the pleasures I’d probably still opt for the company. But instead of causing me to feel lonely, living alone has actually made me feel delightfully in control. My music, my schedule, my space. My how glad I am it’s spring.
miss her kiss her love her
(wrong move you’re dead)
It’s likely that my house is full of Poison.
It was built in 1896 with nice harmless materials like wood and brick, but since then there have been decades of “improvements.” Covering the oak floors with vinyl tiles, for example. Coating the old moldings with lead paint. Dropping the ceilings with asbestos acoustic board. Gluing fake wood paneling onto the plaster. You definitely don’t ever want to glue anything onto plaster, said the contractor who teaches my Saturday home improvement class.
Apparently the best way to handle toxics in your home is not to handle them at all. Most of the stuff is only dangerous if you breathe it or eat it, so covering it up and forgetting about it is cheap and safe. But the former residents of my home were very devoted in their work. They enclosed every surface, usually several times over. There’s just no room left to layer. The shit’s gotta go.
I’ve been having trouble getting a handle on exactly how much precaution the cleanup warrants, particularly for asbestos. My mental threshold for toxic exposure is on the high side. As a coxswain for my college crew team I was thrown into all sorts of sewage-laden rivers, including but not limited to the Charles, the Schuylkill, and the Harlem. Once while I was waiting a long time for a lift by the hot roadside in South Africa, I pumped some water from a puddle through my little backpacker filter and drank it. My job is all about contaminated land. I wash my hands a lot and I try not to be careless, but thoughts of germs and radon do not keep me up at night.
But asbestos is pretty scary. You read enough about mesothelioma and you don’t really want to go anywhere near the stuff. When my inspector pointed out asbestos tape on my heating ducts, he pointed from a distance, with his pen. Internet resources say things like “A professional should take samples for analysis…. In fact, if done incorrectly, sampling can be more hazardous than leaving the material alone. Taking samples yourself is not recommended.”
That said, it seems asbestos exposure might be more similar to smoking: unwise on a long-term basis, somewhat risky even in moderation, best avoided, but not actually synonymous with certain death. My mom – a worldclass hypochondriac who finds cause for concern every time I mention moving through the world – cheerfully reminisced about how she and my father had smashed through asbestos tiles in their early days. That’s what everybody did! she laughed. Just wear a mask, I’ve been told by a contractor. My favorite advice was It’s easy to get guys to pull it out for you – they don’t care. Let’s not get started on that one.
So while my personal jury on asbestos is out, the first step is to learn how much of it I actually have. I found a lab online that does analysis and tried to follow their sampling instructions – wetting the material with a spray bottle, cutting cleanly with a utility knife, wiping off the sealed ziplock bag. In reality, though, when I was crouched ten feet up on top of a kitchen cabinet, sawing away over my head at ceiling board unsuccessfully, breathing heavily into my sweaty respirator, I just ripped a piece of the fucker off.
(Girl, I, must warrrrrn yoooooooooou.)
since i bought a house
1. Started running again.
2. Invited people over – despite the lack of both heat and furniture. This has always been a big part of my life, but was completely absent in the hippie house.
3. Acquired a small but growing set of tools. Including a pry bar. Heh.
4. Told Operaman that I’m not waiting it out anymore to see if we can make it work – that even though we both want it to work, he needs to show up fast and fully, or I’m going to start seeing other people.
5. Started seeing other people.
6. Not once taken the bus to work instead of biking just because of the weather.
7. Took my first swing dancing lesson, which I’ve been planning since summer two thousand six.
8. Ok, I went swing dancing with Operaman. But I’m still seeing other people.
9. Written a one point two million dollar grant for work.
10. Joined a soccer team.
11. Felt generally kickass again.
Now granted, some of these things are happening because it is spring, and because I’m no longer brand new at my job, and because I’m no longer brand new in Portland. But damn. I sure do better with a Big Project to rally everything else around, and it turns out a falling-down house is as good as a marathon or a long trip.
now and then
Today is the second of April and yesterday, on the first of the month, I didn’t write out a rent check. I panicked a little realizing the date, and then I remembered. I didn’t write out a mortgage check either, because my first one isn’t due until May - but once that gets started it’s not scheduled to stop for thirty years.
I’ve been hearing a lot about what a good investment I’ve made. Growing city, good neighborhood. Cheapest house on the block. But it’s hard for me to think of my house that way. I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave it. I can’t imagine growing out of it or getting tired of it or suddenly longing for the suburbs.
Houses are a thing that people sometimes choose to do in order to keep themselves busy. I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing, and it certainly applies to me. We all find things to keep us busy, ideally things that match our values. Writing, politics, kids.
But I don’t want to manufacture long-term busyness for myself with a house. Last night over organic doppelbach at a new brewpub my friend told me about her ex, He didn’t love me so much as he loved what I might become. Anyone not been there? I don’t want to be thinking about the next house while I’m living in this one. I don’t even want to be thinking about how good my house might one day be. I don’t mind that my fixer isn’t fixed. It keeps things interesting. And once it’s fixed, I hope I’ll know enough to say Enough.
A few nights back I bolted up in bed and rushed into my bathroom with a measuring tape, gleeful to discover that my bathtub will still (just barely) fit if I turn it ninety degrees. It will change the whole feel of my single tiny bathroom: make room for a floor mat, leave space for a towel rack, and unblock the window. It felt like an epiphany. And then the idea that it was an epiphany felt instantly ridiculous. Who the fuck cares about the layout of my bathroom?
Why should I even care? I do, of course. I went to design school and there’s nothing to be done. But this isn’t what I want to spend my time and energy on for the next ten years. I love my house now, and I’ll make it more livable – which will be fun – and then I’ll love it still. And in the background I guess it will be a good investment, but in real life it will be the place where I wake up in the mornings, and do the things that feel more important to me than sink fixtures. Writing? Politics? Kids?
