The Friðvin Samúelsson Museum

Jesus Christ. I have been cleaning the house and finding all sorts of historical crap. There is a plastic bag full of shit. My high school graduation certificate, various reports and unflattering notes from teachers using words like ‘careless’ and ‘retarded.’

‘Baby’s First Book’ is particularly interesting as my mother documented my growth and eating habits for the first year or so of my life. It is somewhat freaky to read in my mother’s handwriting and knowing she was writing about me and using words like ‘pablum.’ Little did she know I was only a few years shy of being a careless retard.

I know she gave me all this stuff some years ago because she probably wanted it out of her house, and now it is in mine, and what do I do with it? When I die the sentimental value will abruptly be reduced to zero and it will be tossed in the rubbish bin so why not now? Should I feel guilt at tossing something that my mother treasured for over 58 years?

I supposed I could take a room in the house and set it up as a museum comprised of an enormous collection of memories with tattered remnants of hope.

Friðvinsafnið

Opnunartími: 

13-17 mán, mið og fimmtudaga  

10-17 þriðjudaga og föstudaga

When I die perhaps I can have it placed in a small box in my grave. I’m not sure what else to do with ‘Baby's First Book’ and part of me resents the fact that it is my responsibility to make the decision.

But why not open a museum? I’m apparently already operating a thrift shop here.

A number of years ago I had a tank top fetish and acquired dozens. Last year I don’t recall wearing one all summer and I had managed to not wear any this year, so I started sorting through them, selecting ones I particularly liked, and some that had never been worn yet and put them in the pile to keep. The remainder went in a bag to be taken to the charity shop at some point.

Lately we started having the typical Texas summer with real heat (40C and over) and I noticed my t-shirts were wet in the arm pits for most of the day despite being inside the house. So I started shopping in my thrift shop bag. I pulled out one I had been reluctant to give away, then I pulled out another, and then another. I think there are now only about 3 or 4 remaining in the bag! But hey, at least they are getting worn, and the wet armpits have gone away.  Plus, I can wear them in the evening and it doesn’t matter if I drop curry on them.

The good news is I have another closet that actually functions now. I tossed out two huge boxes that were used to ship my hi-fi speakers here a few years ago. Awhile back I smashed them flat but it didn’t really create any extra space due to the hard styrofoam packing material.

The weekend was actually productive overall as I managed to get both bathrooms cleaned and also started cleaning in the garage, plus the closet!

I think cleaning and organising is how I avoid confronting the harsher realities of life. And it happens to make me feel good in the process. It is, for me, much like meditation.

I intensely dislike clutter. Compared to the average American home this place probably looks stark and minimalist already but there is so much more to do.

The remodel of both bathrooms was far more disruptive than I anticipated since everything had to come out of both bathrooms. I still have not got things put back exactly the way I want them but at least a lot less went back into them than what came out!

Meticulous organisation is but one of my obsessions.

The last of the 20th century pussies

When we moved here in 1997 we were soon visited frequently by a polydactyl black cat with beautiful green eyes. I knew she probably belonged to someone in the neighbourhood but I gave her the name ‘Big Thumbs.’ She would sprawl somewhere and extend her arm out with her paw turned upward as if to show off her anomaly. 

Other cats were prone to hanging round here as well. Usually they were males. One was a big grey boy, perhaps Maine Coon, and the other was a large ginger. The ginger didn’t linger much and I only saw him a few times. One of those times I caught him copulating with Big Thumbs.  I never named him because he was not a regular visitor, but the big grey cat I called ‘Tiger’ which I will freely admit is not terribly original.

Sometime later, in 1998 or early 1999 she gave birth to some kittens somewhere in the area. Once the kittens were large enough to be handed off she brought them here to our patio. Big Thumbs was a wise girl because she apparently sensed they would have a safe and loving home with us.

One of the earliest photos (from a film camera, not digital!) I have is of her on the patio with three kittens all nursing while Big Thumbs was in her classic pose with paw extended out. The kittens were as large as she was. One female was a classic tortie and the other two were black.

We took Big Thumbs to the vet to have her spayed as a precaution against this incident repeating itself.  Some time after that Big Thumbs disappeared and it happened to coincide with some neighbours on the next street moving elsewhere.

One evening Sheldon came into the house holding the tortie girl. She was an indoor cat for the rest of her life. The two black cats remained outside as patio cats, along with Tiger who never seemed to wander far. I decided to name her Sissy because she also was a polydactyl. Sissy Hankshaw was the big-thumbed character in ‘Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.’

‘The whole idea of paying for a ride just makes my thumbs hurt.’— Sissy Hankshaw

In addition to being polydactyl she had another weird quirk. One of her extra claws would grow in a circle and form a round disk. Once during a vet visit the doctor, much to my dismay, clipped one off. I was delighted later to see it grow back.

When Sissy was introduced into the house we only had one other cat. Samantha was our mixed Siamese we brought here from California. They bonded well. 

In the feline world I guess the word spread that our house was a sanctuary for cats. Soon, another large female appeared on the front porch. This was probably in 2000. She seemed older. We fed her and provided water for a year while she endured the Texas summers and the handful of cold mornings that pass for winter in these parts.

One day I opened the front door and invited her to come inside. She walked in like she had always belonged here and made herself at home. I named her Jezebel.

The three cats all bonded quite well. One of my favourite photos is of the three of them stretched across my bed sleeping, and Sissy was resting against Samantha.

I believe it was in 2003 when Jezebel was hit with liver failure. It was shocking to me because it happened immediately. She had been sitting in the kitchen window and then jumped down to the floor. I later found her under my bed seeking seclusion. This was odd for her but I assumed she must not be feeling well. This continued for another day or two and I was getting concerned.

Finally I reached under there to drag her out and it was clear she was ill. I placed her in a corner of the room so I could monitor her. It was a Sunday before the Memorial Day holiday.

Monday morning was horrendous. She had begin to secrete a nasty brown fluid from her mouth. I placed her in a box and called the emergency vet service since it was a holiday. I took her in and they recommended she be put to sleep immediately due to her condition.

This was my first experience ever with a cat euthanasia and I did not handle it well. I was not present when they injected her in the next room. But when the doctor came in to announce the deed was done I broke down sobbing on the floor. Uncontrollable sobbing. 

Life continued with Sissy and Samantha until 2005 when another ginger male appeared in the garage. He was young, maybe a year old, but very friendly and immediately declared the patio as his home. He also had a toe injury — a swollen red bulb. I wasn’t sure if it was a birth defect, a growth of some kind, or another injury.  It never seemed to heal.

On New Year’s Eve if I recall correctly, Sheldon brought the ginger boy into the house. (Note: these are my memories and I believe them to be accurate. However, I have mentioned these incidents to Sheldon and he denies involvement in introducing either Sissy or the ginger boy into the house, but I digress.)

The boy spent the night in my bedroom and the next morning there were bloody footprints all over the bed and bathroom floor. It was obvious that toe injury needed medical help.

It was actually a broken toe and infected. The doctor removed the toe and placed a purple sock bandage on the foot. So the first couple of weeks with him were quite amusing with him walking around in his purple sock.

In retrospect he was one of the more unruly kitties we ever had. Maybe it’s just a boy thing. He was prone to shitting behind the television, and sometimes pissing. Soon thereafter I changed his name from Big Red to Tater Tot because that’s what his turds looked like: a small cluster of tots.

Sheldon hated the connection and continued to refer to him as Red rather than Tater Tot.

In 2007 we were in the midst of some home makeovers thanks to a heavy rain that resulted in some flooding in the house. Carpets were being ripped up and replaced, rooms painted, and we were replacing overhead lighting in the kitchen. And Samantha was dying.

Samantha was the only indoor cat I’ve ever had who managed to die on her own, at home, without assistance. And I thank her for that. She crawled behind the washing machine and was draped over the power cord when I found her the next morning. Her face was peering out between the washer and the wall, eyes open, but lifeless.

Sissy took this very badly. I have never witnessed a cat in mourning or grieving. For a few days she would sit in the litter box that Samantha used. She would just sit there with the only remaining connection she had to Samantha.

As I reflect back on this time it is quite hard to believe we only had Tater Tot and Sissy in the house. However, we were still caring for Tiger outside, along with Sweet Pea, one of Sissy’s brothers. The other, Coal Pot, had disappeared at some point and we never saw him again.

Things were OK for awhile. Sissy and Tater Tot coexisted but without much in the way of bonding. I had spotted a beautiful Siamese girl up for adoption in March, 2011 at a pet store. I brought home a flyer with her photo on it and it sat on our kitchen table a few months. I desperately wanted that girl and thought Sissy would enjoy having another Siamese since she was so fond of Samantha. Silly me. That’s not how it works but I didn’t know.

Finally, over the protestations of Sheldon, we adopted her in July 2011. The introduction went fine despite our fears that there would be personality clashes between Tater Tot and Jessie Lee, the new arrival.  On the contrary, those two bonded quite well and Sissy was unfortunately the odd one.

Sissy was always the odd one, a bit reserved, very shy around people, and not at all forceful, aggressive, or defensive. Over time it became more of a problem as Tater Tot assumed the role of King Tot and began tormenting Sissy, and particularly when she would use the litter box. Time after time she would be trying to pee and Tater Tot would be creeping up as if he were going to attack.  Sissy would flee the box in a panic with cat litter flying from her feet.

The last straw for me happened one day when Sissy needed to use the box. Tot gave her a scare and she jumped up into a chair before completing her needs.  The Tot stood there staring at her and suddenly I heard the sound of pee dripping from the chair to the floor.

From that moment on, Sissy resided in my bedroom with the door closed. Based on a review of photos I had taken, I think that was probably in 2012. She was completely relaxed and content there, safe with her daddy at night.

This is how life continued. Occasionally, I would leave the bedroom door open by accident, and if the Tot managed to get back there we would hear a screech coming from Sissy. Even Jessie Lee enjoyed an occasional Sissy chase if she had the opportunity. So I tried to keep the door closed at all times, especially if we were both going to be out of the house.

What’s funny is that Sissy was so skittish of anything that moves and yet I would occasionally allow Sweet Pea to come wander in the house at night for a few minutes. There were no issues with either Tater Tot or Jessie Lee, oddly enough. But I would sometimes take him to my bedroom and place him on the bed with Sissy and she wouldn’t even flinch. I have no idea if she sensed the connection as his brother or what.

Soon the outside cat situation was also going through changes. Sweet Pea also got the liver failure and had to be put down. Tiger was in failing health, had lost most of his hearing, and his fur developed massive clumps of matted hair. And yet that boy kept going, barely able to walk.

One day I was sitting on the patio and he was in the garage looking out from an open door. We were looking at each other, directly in the eyes. He turned and wobbled away and I never saw him again. It was a most perplexing thing because he was so physically weak I do not see how he could have gone very far. I never found his body. The three indoor cats became our only cats.

Those six years with Sissy in my bedroom were an amazing time of bonding for us. I realised at some point that she could detect my brain wave patterns, or maybe it was my breathing patterns. She sensed with incredible accuracy exactly when I was either drifting into sleep or waking from it, and often when she was in her own bed in the corner next to the human bed where she couldn’t even see me. I would open my eyes to see her sitting near the door, ready to greet me, and more importantly to receive the food I would soon bring.

As she was getting older her fur starting to get matted and she had exactly the same problems that Tiger had with his fur, in exactly the same places. At that point it suddenly hit me that she probably had two daddies: Tiger, and that unnamed big orange boy who had had a fling with Big Thumbs.

The start of 2017 was wild. We lost a dear friend who had two cats. They were, shall we say, a rather unique pair and difficult to rehome. Maggie really wanted the cats to be housed with us in the event of her death and that is how it unfolded. Scout, a female ginger, and Mungo, a black male with a neurological disorder resulting in his head being cocked sideways in order to see straight, joined our family.

The assimilation was not successful. Jessie Lee enjoyed a good playful chase and Scout is something of a loud screecher when confronted. It was too much for Sheldon as the hissing, spitting and screeching sent him into spasms of anxiety. They have been sequestered in a spare room since arriving here in late January, 2017. There were not so many issues with the Tot that I recall, but maybe it was all overshadowed by the dynamics between them and the aggressive nature of Jessie Lee.

By the beginning of 2017 Tater Tot was getting feeble and lost a lot of weight rather quickly. He lasted until April. His strength was all but gone. One day his vocals changed and it was clear that he was having periods of pain. I had to make the decision to call the vet and schedule an appointment. I had not been through this since Jezebel’s death thanks to Sheldon dealing with Sweet Pea’s demise in the interim. 

I drove my beloved Tot to the nearby vet office. We spent a few minutes chatting. I told him he would forever be my orange boy, my Tot, thanked him for our time together, and then caressed him as the death drugs did their magic. It was difficult for me but I handled it far better than the Jezebel episode. 

I brought him home for burial and was startled by how limp and lifeless his body was when I removed him from the carrier. It actually startled me for a second. I placed him in the hole, touched his cute pink nose and his peachy pink toe pads one last time, then covered his body with dirt. I really hated that part.

Within the year or so, Sissy became more feeble. She no longer hopped up on the bed but clawed her way onto it. And I noticed something else. She was going deaf just like Tiger did in his advanced years. She often would not hear me enter the room and would be startled if she was eating with her back to the door and I suddenly walked through. I was still able to communicate with her a bit with certain tones when I would say her name but otherwise I believe she was 90% deaf.

With Tater Tot out of the picture, I began leaving the bedroom door open and allowing Jessie Lee to venture in. There was initially some hissing and spitting at each other. After all, it had been several years since they had been allowed any real contact with each other.  And I was concerned that Jessie Lee, being unaware that Sissy was deaf, might inadvertently cause a problem.

After a few weeks it was all going well. I think they somehow understood each other and Jessie Lee was aware of Sissy’s health and hearing issues. Sissy began coming out of the room more frequently, first into the hallway, and then gradually extending her roam into other rooms briefly before retreating back into her sanctuary.

By mid-June she was coming out more and sometimes staying out for lengthy periods of time, and often drinking from Jessie Lee’s water bowl and nibbling at the food bowl. Jessie Lee would simply watch while at the same time showing some kind of concern about this situation.

Things continued to deteriorate further in early July and it was clear that Sissy was nearing death.  She had been drinking huge amounts of water for quite some time, months, or maybe even a year. But suddenly she was eating less and looked like a walking skeleton. She would hover in the kitchen or near Jessie Lee’s bowls as if craving something but never getting it.  She was also sleeping a lot in the den under Sheldon’s desk rather than in her room. Over the past weekend I carried her back to the bedroom once, in my arms, and she was not purring.  That was the clearest sign of all that things were about to change yet again.

Monday morning, 9 July, I had a hunch it was time to take her to the vet. This was confirmed when she started walking back to the bedroom to use her litter box and suddenly lost control of her bladder and urinated on the hallway carpet before reaching the bedroom.

I forced myself to call the vet and schedule an 11:30 appointment. At 11:20 I scooped her up and got her into the carrier for the short trip to the vet.

Sheldon and I decided we would do the cremation this time. It was raining all morning and frankly I’ve dug enough cat holes for a lifetime. If I remember correctly, I think I had to bury Samantha in the wet ground. Why must cats die in the rain?

Sissy and I had a rather interesting conversation on the drive to the vet. A lot has changed with me over the past 20 years as well as Sissy. I’m not the same guy in his late 30s who welcomed her into this house. We are all getting older and we’re all dying. I just wanted Sissy to know this is what’s going on with all of us.

I held her in my arms in the exam room at the vet’s while waiting on the doctor. I put her on the floor once in order to sign some papers. She was so feeble she could barely walk and yet the curiosity regarding all this was still there. She had to sense on some level what was about to happen.

The doctor took her to prepare for the injection. She returned and asked if I wanted to spend some time with her but we had already said everything there was to say. I kissed her head and stroked it gently while the sleep drugs were going in.  Within five seconds she went limp. It is always the strangest sensation to be caressing a cat when that happens.

Her eyes were open, still green with peaceful life.

The final death drugs probably took the same amount seconds to kick in and extinguish all. The disappearance of life is so quick and strange. I bent over to give her a final kiss on the bridge of her nose, barely managed to mumble ‘I love you, baby girl,’ and her eyes were as dark as night.

Hot wires and such

Sheldon goes to North Dakota for several days every summer to visit his family and I always take advantage of that time to embark on home improvement projects that he would likely forbid. He just returned last evening after six days and since he did not travel there last year I had a two year backlog of projects. It was an ambitious list and I actually accomplished more than I expected.

The first priority was to paint his bedroom. During the bathroom remodel last year there was a serious screw-up in the shower installation adjacent to one of the bedroom walls which required cutting out a huge piece of the wall to correct the error. They did repair the drywall and sprayed matching texture but it was never repainted. 

It has been several years since I painted the room in a blue-grey and so I had to find a close match. I went with one called ‘Lighthouse Shadows’ which is quite nice and a shade lighter than what was on the walls. Of course this necessitated repainting the entire room. I had to move a couple of things out and also pull the heavy bed away from a wall.

I started around 8:00 on Saturday morning and was done by 11:10. Only a few minor touch-ups remain where I dripped or accidentally got some on the white ceiling.

With the bed away from the wall I was ready to start another project — replacing all the electric receptacles as well as the light switches. For a long time I have wanted to do this throughout the house because I am not fond of the standard beige that is used in most homes, and with my Nordic design fetish, I insist on white.

I had doubt whether I would ever actually do this myself rather than have an electrician called in to tackle the project which would no doubt be costly as there are 35 receptacles and 17 light switches that I counted. The biggest priority was to replace the switches for the ceiling light and closet light and then the five receptacles in that bedroom. If I could do that successfully then I would have confidence in doing the remainder of the house at my leisure.

After watching a number of instructional videos online I was ready to begin. I shut off the power to that room and got my tools ready which included a flathead screwdriver, a Phillips screwdriver, needle nose pliers, and most importantly, a tool to check for voltage present in the wires which has proven to be an essential necessity for any project involving electricity.

In shutting off the power to the room I assumed that would cover the entire room. But I went round with my tester checking each wall outlet. When I got to the last one which was behind the bed I got a beep and a red light indicating voltage present. Wow! I didn’t expect that!

There is another room on the other side of that wall and apparently the circuit for that room includes that one outlet on the shared wall. Lesson learned: never assume anything. This was, however, not the biggest surprise I would experience.

I started with the light switch that controls the overhead light. I knew my first attempt was likely to take significantly longer and then I hoped once I got into a rhythm I could get these done in about 5-7 minutes which would make it theoretically possible to complete all 17 in the house over the weekend.

That first light switch was certainly a challenge. The incoming wires were secured with a clamp inside a small hole on the back of the receptacle and were impossible to pull out. I learned that you can release the clamp using a small screwdriver to press into an opening that would release the clamp and the wires could be pulled out. After struggling with that for several minutes I was finally successful.

I also noticed the old receptacle did not have a grounding screw like the new one. Two of the wires were attached using the push-in clamps and a 3rd one was attached to a screw so I assumed that must be the ground wire.

After wiring everything up and getting the receptacle secured to the wall I went out to turn on the power so I could test it.  There was light and I was proud of myself.

I shut off the power again and did the second light switch for the closet, and then decided to try one of the electric outlets on the wall.  That was was a bit more difficult as there were 4 wires plus a ground wire but I got it all done.

After switching the power back on I went to test everything. The overhead light still worked. Hitting the switch on the closet light did nothing. I tested with my voltage meter and got no reading. Then I tested the electric outlet that I had just replaced. Nothing. No power. I then removed the receptacles leaving only exposed bare wire and got no reading whatsoever with my voltage tester. Not only that, but every other outlet in the room was now dead except for the one that was on the adjacent room’s circuit.

I went to the bathroom to wash my hands and now there was no light in the bathroom either! Now I was completely frustrated and baffled and my progress came to an abrupt halt as did my self-esteem. The remainder of my day was spent troubleshooting this and double checking my wiring.

Sunday I had a friend come over to take a look. She is considerably more experienced with this kind of thing than I am, but she was also perplexed.

The master bath already had a pre-existing problem with a GFCI switch located in the garage that periodically shuts off power to the two bathroom outlets and most often happens during a storm. Restoring power is as simple as pressing a reset button on the GFCI but that wasn’t working for several months now. The electric razor and toothbrush have had to be charged in another room.

Knowing that I was already going to need an electrician to determine the cause of my existing problem I decided to go ahead and make an effort to replace the GFCI receptacle. I got that wired up and still no success with hitting the reset button. My friend checked that, tightened my ground screw, and suddenly the thing worked! Any bit of good news and success was welcome.

Meanwhile I was getting into a panic mode because the last thing I wanted was for Sheldon to return home on Tuesday and find a bunch of live wires hanging out of the wall in this bedroom, and especially after I had been instructed NOT to do ANY electrical work since I am not an electrician. That humiliation would be too much.

On Monday morning I was able to get in touch with an electrician who had availability at 11:30 for about an hour. I was apprehensive because I had no idea what the extent of the problem might be, or if it was something he could resolve in an hour.  

He arrived on time and I explained my problem. He took one look at the first light switch I wired up and said, “Well, there is a problem here.”

The only wire that had been connected to a screw terminal on the old switch that I assumed was a ground wire was actually a live wire meant to relay power down the line to other switches and outlets on the circuit, which included the bathroom light next door!

The electrician rewired that one, did the same with my closet light, and then checked the duplex receptacle I had wired up. Actually, that was the only one I had wired correctly!

He finished all of this in about 30 minutes, I turned the power back on and everything worked again! The ceiling light, closet light, and the receptacles all had power again. He was nice enough to explain my error and gave me some tips for continuing this project so that I don’t make these mistakes again.

While I understand the most basic things about electricity I never had a clue that one entry point into a room was the relay for everything else in the room.

Now it was Monday afternoon and I knew I had to finish the other our duplex receptacles within the next 24 hours. I got right on it. I did the second, third and fourth receptacles on this circuit. Sure enough, when I took out the fourth one which was the end of the run, there were only two wires plus a ground wire rather than four because that one had nowhere to relay to. It all made perfect sense now.

Then I shut off the power in the adjacent room for that one outlet behind the bed and rewired that one with a new receptacle, tested for voltage and it was all good. Just to be sure, before I moved the bed back against the wall I plugged in the Alexa assistant and nothing happened.  Fuck! At this point I was about ready to have a screaming fit.

I walked away from this for awhile to really ponder things and then wondered if perhaps Alexa had an ‘on’ button. She did! So everything was fine. I was never so happy to get that bed back into place and start making the room look normal again. 

Sometimes I can be so outrageously stupid and I will admit that I am completely incompetent when it comes to anything mechanical, although generally I do not struggle with off/on buttons on gadgets!  I am pathetic with assembly instructions, I can do next to nothing in terms of engine work or anything of that nature. Basically I can use a hammer, a screwdriver, and a drill. I can hang pictures. I can paint. And being queer I can have design ideas to die for. Anything else gets dicey. For example, I also wired up a new switch for the closet light in the master bedroom. I was a bit stunned when I finished and pressing the top of the paddle switch (normally the ‘on’ position) would actually turn the light off instead of on, and vice versa. Clearly I had mounted the damned thing upside down! So I had to fix that.

Last year when I was replacing all the door hardware with new knobs and hinges there were several instances where I mounted the hinges upside down and had to redo them. It’s embarrassing. 

Although I really wanted to have more light switches in the rest of the house completed before Sheldon’s return, I was thankful that at least his room was done before his return, and I am armed with the knowledge required to continue with the other rooms whenever I am ready.

It was an outrageously busy six days. Aside from painting the room and rewiring the electrics, I stained a wood shelf in the master closet and sprayed two coats of polyurethane finish. I’m not sure the difference was worth the effort. Originally my intent was to paint it white so it would match all the other shelves in the closet. But it was an interesting piece of wood and I wanted to try staining first. Now I am thinking I will paint the underside white and make it into a reversible shelf and then I can decide which looks nicer.

Another project was one that wasn’t on my original project list. It just popped into my head while I was painting the bedroom. I wanted to take down all the air vents from the ceiling, clean them, and repaint them white. I managed to get that done as well in between other projects. It was quite easy and quick to remove them, give them a wipe down or a scrub if needed (one of them in the kitchen was hideously filthy) and then quickly spray them white and let them dry. The drying phase took about 3 hours so I was free to resume work elsewhere while they dried.

What is interesting after all this is that I actually enjoy electrical work more so than most other projects. Plumbing comes to mind. I despise plumbing and have absolutely no desire to attempt it. If Sheldon ever goes away for a few days and returns to find new faucets in the kitchen and baths there will be no doubt whatsoever that I hired a professional.

Meanwhile, during this project, nine more door handles arrived so I can resume that project of replacing the door knobs that I only installed late last summer.

Someday this will all be just the way I want it.

There is no place like an ever-evolving home

The year 2018 will soon be half over and what a strange one it has been. It has not been a bad year at all. Let’s just say it has not panned out they way I was expecting it to when I was looking ahead back in 2017.

For starters, this was the year that I thought it might be possible to make two trips to Iceland — once in the late spring and again at the usual time in late autumn. Strangely enough there is some uncertainty as to whether I will get there once this year.

Time seems to be racing and I honestly cannot even recall what consumed most of my time for the first three months of the year. Work is a likely culprit.

April arrived and I decided it was time to do some landscaping improvements around the kitchen patio before the onslaught of summer’s relentless heat. I thought this project might take a week and I spent the entire month working on it whenever I had spare time. But hey, four weekends equals a week, right?

May was warmer than usual and I tried to turn my focus back to interior projects (and there are many of those on the list) but my motivation would never solidify and work was again mostly to blame. So I went shopping online. I spent the month ordering clothes, trying them on, deciding what to keep, ordering more, and so on. I took care of what few returns there were at the beginning of June and here I sit looking stylish as ever and wondering what the hell comes next.

One of my obsessions is making this house feel as Nordic as possible and this has been going on now for about three years. Progress is slow. I went through a phase of colourful walls and some wild vein-cut travertine tile installation in the common areas. While it was a huge improvement over what had been there since the late 1980s, I’m starting to realise I want simplicity and more muted contrasts.

It has been perhaps three years since I repainted the den and kitchen. The former was in two shades of sage green with a high accent wall being a shade darker than the other walls. For some reason this north facing room is naturally dark and the sage green was simply too much. I opted to go with a greyish white and it was a vast improvement.  

The kitchen walls were a lemon yellow which in hindsight was absolutely atrocious with the vibrant and busy travertine flooring. So those walls got the same makeover as the den. Two years ago I continued by painting the living room and adjacent foyer in the same light grey shade. This was probably the most exciting transformation. The room is brighter and drenched in natural light in the afternoons. What a difference it makes not having a dark green on the wall to suck up all that gorgeous light. Even the art seems happier not having to fight with the wall to be seen and appreciated.

Last year marked the completion of two bathroom remodels which definitely took them in a Nordic direction, and I also changed out all the door hardware in the house, replacing traditional builder-grade bronze door knobs and hinges with polished chrome, and I also painted the doors white rather than the common yellowy off-white which is so pervasive in most homes.

May was the month I wanted to make significant progress continuing this trend elsewhere in the house, most notably in the room which was formerly my office and is now exclusively a cat den. It is a beautiful room with high ceilings and a wall of windows and is probably my favourite room in the house.  Tis a pity it isn’t being used by humans.

When the house was built that room was an artist studio with built in cabinets for canvases and a sink for rinsing brushes. With the natural light filling the room it was likely an artist’s dream studio. While I did paint the walls a decade or so ago — in a lovely margarita lime green! — it is the only room in the house that has escaped any other renovation. The ugly vinyl flooring is filthy and peeling, and in some areas pulled up by cat claws.

After considering hardwood, bamboo, and even cork, I think what is going to make the most sense is something extremely cat-friendly: ceramic tiles. They will be tiles resembling weathered wood planks but I think I want to keep the look simple by avoiding the more rustic looks which include things like cracks in the wood. Just a plain and simple wood plank look without all the extra rough features.

If it was as simple as ordering the tiles and having someone install them, this project would likely be underway by now. Unfortunately it is complicated somewhat by other factors. There is the issue of the built-in cabinets. I toyed with the idea of keeping them. However, they aren’t particularly nice, and the one at the back of the room designed for canvas storage really serves no other purpose.  It has to go. The other one at the opposite side of the room next to the entry door is more of a traditional deep bookshelf and happens to be great for vinyl record storage. I think it also has to go. I would rather replace it with floating wall shelving as the need arises.

The idea of starting with a clean and open rectangular room is exciting. The sink was removed last year during the bathroom renovations leaving behind a huge hole in the wall with exposed plumbing. No doubt the removal of the built-ins is likely to cause other minor wall damage requiring drywall repairs, and I’d rather get all of that dirty work done at the same time.

The room also functions now as a guest bedroom.  Overnight guests are a rare event here but it is nice to have a room handy for a guest and we are expecting a guest in August. While it is not essential that I have this project done by then, it would be really nice after 20 years of living here to finally have a clean and comfortable dedicated room for this purpose.

Additionally, it is a large enough space that I could return to using it as a second office space when I need to close a door, or a place to go sit and read a book.  My living room currently functions as all of these things: entertainment room, audio room, reading room, and my office desk tucked into a corner, and all freely accessible to a Siamese cat. Sometimes additional options are nice, like when you actually need to work without straddling an oversized cat.

Now the pressure is starting to hit me. I need to get going on this. None of it is a major renovation and it shouldn’t take more than a few days. It will probably take a day for me to move out what is in there, and the worst is an office desk which seems to weigh as much as a car and is almost as difficult to get through a doorway. If I can just get that much done by the first of July that leaves me with an entire month to complete this and move on to the other projects which are not such a high priority.

Not many people obsess about things like cream yellow electric outlets and light switches and the ugly accompanying faceplates. I am that person. And yes, that is on my list. I want every light switch converted to a paddle switch in white with matching white faceplates, and every electric outlet converted to white.  This is a big item on my agenda because when I look at an otherwise beautiful grey room the stark presence of ugliness is jolting.

Then the master bedroom work needs to commence.  It’s minor: new paint (I also went with a dark sage green in there many years ago and I hate it) and the carpet needs to be replaced. The master bedroom is also a cat apartment for my ancient, nearly deaf and senile polydactyl tortie and I’m not keen on disrupting her golden years. 

Therefore, that project will get done when it gets done. No pressure there, except for those damned light switches and electric outlets.  Those have to go and soon.

One thing I have learned from all this is that it’s good for me to take my time and thoroughly evaluate everything and not make any quick decisions. The polished chrome doorknobs are a great example. I am now wishing I had gone with a simple chrome lever instead of a knob. I’ve got one arriving tomorrow to see how it looks.

Hey, this could be a June project! I have almost 2 weeks left in the month!

Fashion confessions & self-discoveries

Am I going to seem shallow and superficial if I write about clothing and fashion? Who cares! Let me first give you a brief history of my relationship to clothing.

As a child I wore whatever my mother bought or made for me. She probably selected what I would wear each day and most likely dressed me. Up until I was probably six I was also known for taking them off. Outside. Whenever I wanted to which was whenever the weather was nice enough to be naked outside. I think the postman once asked my mother if I even had any clothes to wear.

When I was a little bit older I became more discreet about it, such as getting naked with close friends but at that point I don’t think it had much to do with an aversion to wearing clothes so perhaps that bit does not belong here.

Around the age of 7 or 8 I began to develop a preference for certain things like sleeveless shirts because for some inexplicable reason I absolutely despised t-shirts. I held onto this for several years, perhaps until I was around 11 or 12. I still remember the first t-shirt I wore and how awkward it felt at first. I believe it was a gift from an older cousin who was going to school at Vanderbilt since the name of the university was on the front of the shirt.

Related to the early t-shirt phobia is an additional fashion quirk I have which is an insistence that long sleeves be rolled up to my elbow and yet I absolutely abhor short sleeves that are long enough to reach my elbow.

My teen years were marked by a more active interest in selecting my own clothing and in choosing what I would wear to school each day. My taste was undeveloped and quite frankly horrendous. It isn’t just that the colours were mismatched; it was the pattern contrasts that were so stark. I remember one day at school we had some kind of ‘ugly dress up’ day for fun and I gave that a shot. I ended up looking odd but far less ugly than my normal attire. It was more of an Amish vibe in blacks and whites which was a huge improvement over my standard attire. In fact if I wore the same today I would probably be mistaken for a hipster sans beard, especially if I was hanging out in a trendy cafe with a breakfast special of avocado toast or a goat cheese biscuit.

I suppose hair falls into the fashion realm but I need to comment on this regardless.  I let my hair grow a bit longer in my mid to late teens but I had absolutely no concept of how to style it or condition it.  I knew how I wanted to look but my attempts to succeed were atrocious. Whatever cheap shampoo smelled like green apples was fine with me. Then I would proceed to brush my hair while blowdrying it until it was crisp. Surely some part of me knew it looked like absolute shit but I carried on. 

My late teens, around 17-18, were a huge time of change for me. Punk rock happened. I had already been something of an Anglophile for a number of years and now I had found something to excite me. Embarrassed as I am to admit the truth, I was paying more attention to the look than the message. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) there were not many options for me in the rural American south. I had to travel.

Alternative types were known for digging in thrift shops to get their look. I tried this. It did not work. What I really wanted was for it to be easy. You walk into a thrift shop and in the back corner somewhere would be a sign overhead identifying the ‘Punk Clothes’ section. I lacked the skillset apparently. I decided the thrift shops in New York and Athens, Georgia must be far superior to all others so I gave up. Besides, that hair thing. My hair was not going to be spiky and how could I ever be a punk without spiky hair? That clump of dry steel wool just looked stupid when sprayed blue. A food server at the university dining hall assumed I had been the victim of a frat house hazing. Ugh!

Somewhat abruptly I did a complete change of course and went through a phase of finer things like cashmere scarves and lovely silk neckties made in Switzerland, dressy white shirts with dark trousers and nice leather shoes. By default it was a better look for me even if completely pointless. I wanted to be seen as a debonair European but I guess I looked like a pretentious prick and/or a Republican. I think I wanted to be Bond.  James Bond. Thankfully this phase was short-lived. Besides, I still had not learned how to deal with the hair.

By this time it was the early 1980s — a decade that could best be described as weird. In the summer of 1983 I moved to London where I spent the next 14 months. There I had access to things hitherto unseen in shops and flea market stalls. Black trousers with zippers in odd places. Studded belts and bracelets. Skinny ties and combat boots. And something miraculous. There was a clear gel for hair you could get for under a quid in a shop — Boots perhaps. I know it was a large chain of pharmacies and this product was probably the store brand. (Actually, Boots still sells a styling gel for £0.99 offering ‘extra firm hold’. What the hell is in that stuff??) What wonders it did to my hair! Slick the hair back with a dollop of that stuff, let it dry and then selectively pry apart the board-stiff pieces of hair.  WOW. I think real punks used this stuff for their mohawks or something. I still could not get that level of control but it was a huge improvement. Doesn’t matter. I was a fucking poseur anyway.

With the aid of this miracle goop I was confidently allowing my hair to grow longer and experimenting with dyes and relaxers. I can say with absolute certainty that jet black was not my best look. I finally settled on blonde which I liked once I was able to overcome the mishap that resulted in metallic green hair thanks to the combo of blonde dye and a chemical relaxer. Live and learn! Being called ‘Madonna’ by a co-worker did nothing to deter me.

I was constantly drifting in new directions. The New Wave phase I went through was easier than the punk look, but it came at a price. It simply cost a lot more money if Duran Duran were your fashion role models instead of the Sex Pistols. I don’t think those pretty boys dressed cheap and nothing about them screamed thrift shop, but they were hauling in millions in contrast to my low record shop wages.

Returning to the US in the autumn of 1984 would start another fashion trajectory as I somehow got mixed up in a creative art crowd and further fashion experimentation ensued. Definitely eclectic with little thought given to strict gender adherence, it was a fun era although I would probably rather be shot dead now than be seen wearing what I wore then.

The only constant was that my fashion followed whatever musical style I was into. Punk went to New Wave and then to heavy metal and then grunge in the early 90s.

The 90s were another interesting period. Professionally I landed in my first real job of my entire life at the age of 30. And it quickly became my career and I was self-supporting financially in the City of Angels. Leather jackets and bandanas gradually gave way to khaki trousers and flashy shirts. Yes, I discovered the joys of outlet mall shopping!

My infatuation was Jhane Barnes, an American designer who used computer software to create the most fascinating designs and patterns. There was absolutely nothing subtle about the shirts I bought. Some 25 years later I am forcing myself to part with most of them and not because I dislike them. On the contrary I still find them appealing, if only they fit me appropriately.

One of my early mistakes in life was never questioning my mother when it came to a proper fit.  If we were looking at a shirt and she said I needed a large then I bought a large. Therefore, every shirt going forward had to be a large or else, in my mind, I was buying the wrong size. I had no clue that variations existed in how clothing fit even with the same size as identified on the label. I also apparently had no idea how to look at myself and determine whether something actually fit me or not. If I liked the shirt, and it had an ‘L’ on the label, I bought it. Yes, of course I would try them on first, but I had no concept whatsoever of determining whether it truly fit me.  For example, I might fail to notice there was enough space inside the shirt for two torsos because I was only paying attention to sleeve length or how the colours looked on me.

I dressed this way and wore these shirts for over two decades with absolutely no clue they were oversized.  Sheldon had come on board and bought a few for himself in his size, a medium. At some point when he quit wearing them I tried them on and was astonished that they fit. They fit better. How could that be? In fact I would argue they were still quite large because he had one or two in a small that probably look better on me than any other shirt I owned. He clearly knew more about how to size them up than I did.

Furthermore, I had such a flagrant disregard for proper sizing that I would sometimes buy an XL if I liked the shirt and a large was not available.  Hey, it was a beautiful shirt, I wanted it, the price was irresistibly discounted and by God I would own it! I would make it fit! 

This rigid adherence to what I thought was my size also applied to shoes and it’s a funny story so I’ll tell it.  I’m quite sure I always wore a size 12 since I was a teenager.  My feet are big! In the UK that size is an 11 or 11 1/2 and I was probably informed by the sales clerk at Selfridges of this when I was buying the leather Duran Duran-ish boots to match my leather Duran Duran-ish jacket. Sometimes the choices are only in whole sizes so I have always gone with size 11.

Upon returning to the States I continued buying 11s. You would think I would pay attention to comfort, right? Wrong. I was a size 11 because someone on the other side of the world told me I was a size 11 which was true there, just not here. I continued buying shoes too small for the next 30 years. It was only when I started walking a lot for exercise that it became a problem. I fucked my feet up. Bone spurs developed on the little toe of each foot, but worse on my right foot which is probably a hair longer than my left foot.

Sometimes the pain was barely noticeable but it was often excruciating! I finally went to a doctor who immediately knew the problem was a bad shoe fit.  He sent me to a specialty shop for high quality shoes where I was measured. I am indeed a size 12. In the US.

Surgical correction was something I was definitely considering although the idea of a grotesquely swollen toe for four months kept holding me back. Miraculously, after 3 years of wearing correctly sized shoes, the pain stopped while I was in Iceland last November and it has not returned.

So, here I am in my late 50s and finally learning how to buy clothes in my proper size.  Even though I have long had a European proclivity where clothing is concerned, it has only been during the more recent time spent in Iceland that I began to feel pulled into that design direction which seems to be slimmer and more form-fitting rather than long, loose, and bulky. I have recently felt compelled to correct decades of wrong choices.

Twenty years of living in Austin has seen me gravitating more to the thrill of finding cheap things I like. I have bought shirts I like at Goodwill for $7. I went through a prolonged phase with a cargo shorts fetish phase and patted myself on the back for each pair I bought that were marked down from $40 to $20, with another 50% off for clearance pricing, and with 20% off coupon in hand, I would score them for $8! What a deal, except they often didn’t fit correctly, sometimes were not particularly comfortable, and were simply ordinary and occasionally inferior quality.

The month of May was marked by a decision to try a new approach: to buy things that look nice, are made well, and fit well. I focused my attention on the high end shops with their websites loaded with clearance price clothing. After all, the thrill of finding a bargain cannot be dismissed.

I discovered reasonably priced long sleeve designer shirts with interesting detailing and patterns that feel amazing when wearing them. Much to my surprise, my proper size is a medium and often tailored as a slim fit. No more bulky oversized shirts that drape off my shoulders like some hand-me-down from somebody devouring a plate of BBQ, drinking a 12-pack of Bud Light, and screaming at football on the telly.

For the warmest months (and we’re there now) I have acquired a variety of short sleeve button-up shirts and t-shirts with an ideal fit. There are designers I have never heard of and I am thrilled to discover them.  

Gone are the days of loose fit jeans with sagging crotches and cavernous cargo shorts. One of my most adventurous purchases is a white pair of chinos with super skinny legs. I deliberated for days whether to keep them. But they fit. I like them. I’m keeping them and I’m wearing them. 

If any of you happen to have a copy of The Official Rule Book which declares super skinny jeans to be the domain of the Under 20 crowd you may let me know.  I will send you away with derision but don’t let that stop you from trying.

I discovered some Danish designed socks that are among the most exciting purchases I’ve ever made, particularly where socks are concerned. I have stopped at nothing in this quest for a fashion revamp. My new Spanish-made underwear are a testament to that fact.

And for the first time since my early 20s I bought a belt. Leather. Braided. Made in Italy and it smells like the inside of a new Ferrari. It is made by Frye, another company I’d never heard of. But they have been making belts since the 1860s so I’m guessing they know something about their craft. 

Jesus, I should stop now because I am beginning to sound like my grandmother obsessing about her Salvatore Ferragamo shoe fetish!

What a joy it is to admire the attention to detail and revel in the luxuriousness of fine cottons and linens while not having any ostentatious outward display of costly snobbery. No Gucci logos, no Dolce & Gabbana garishness.  Just basic down-to-earth comfort and superior quality with a huge price reduction off retail.

I may have finally found myself. Sure was a long journey.