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My
Inamorata
There's
no place like home, or renovating a love nest on Galveston
Island
By D. L. Murphy
Deb Murphy (left) and Maria Minicucci proudly pose in
front of their 1896 Galveston "house."
Okay, I admit it; I’m middle-aged. That face I
saw in the mirror first thing in the morning when I
was 35 is my daily face today. This is distressing,
this is intolerable—I decided a little fling was
in order. I talked to my partner; she agreed she too
could use a fling, so we started cruising.
Now, when you are our age, you are generally looking
for a pretty young thing. You know, great body, great
face, dumber than a sack of hammers, your friends all
snickering behind your back. Fun! What we wound up with,
contrarians that we are, is a historic house in Galveston.
Now, this is not a house in the sense that you could
actually inhabit it; it is a house only in the sense
that it is an ordered pile of wood occupying some land.
We decided that we have to have “vision.”
The fact that this vision may be a hallucination is
something we do not discuss. Actually this vision may
be a form of mass hysteria—all of our friends congratulate
us and believe they can help us achieve this “vision.”
I am worried about the physical attributes of our fling—my
partner calls me a pig. How much will the foundation
repairs cost? Does the roof still leak? Where is all
of this water coming from? How long will it take to
replace the subfloor in the kitchen? How am I going
to rid the house of the dog piss smell, the cat urine
smell, the goat (goat?!) smell?
My partner, of course, is femme. Her concerns center
around: What kind of makeover does the house need? Colors?
Decor? As usual, price is no object. Fortunately, it’s
going to be years before she can go shopping.
We close, the “house” is all ours, and we
are just so proud.
First order of business...the hardware store! I get
to live out every butch’s fantasy. A friend (a.k.a.
someone who owns a truck) and I go to the hardware store
at 8 a.m. one Sunday morning. We go up and down every
aisle, look at all the goodies, and put everything I
think I need in the cart. Four hours (and more money
than I’m going to tell my partner about) later,
we haul my loot to the “house,” where we spend
two hours assembling shelves and properly arranging
our supplies. I have this momentary sinking feeling
that this will be the last sign of order here for a
long, long time.
My partner takes two dear men friends to the “house.”
Since one of these men is an interior designer and the
other an engineer, we are planning on taking shameless
advantage of them. One quick visit, an expressed opinion
that we are in over our heads (read, out of our minds),
and we haven’t heard from them since. We remain
optimistic; after all, we are dykes, and we can fix
anything.
First major task—get rid of that smell. The downstairs
was evidently some sort of menagerie. Unfortunately,
no one ever thought to muck out the rooms. My partner
refuses to enter the house again until I do something
about the stench. My friends let me know that they are
so sorry, but they will be very much otherwise engaged
whenever it is that this task is scheduled, but that
they will definitely be available as soon as this task
is over. Okay, bright and early one Sunday morning I
arrive at the house to begin the deodorizing process.
I pull out the carpeting, roll it up, and carry it to
the curb. Same thing with the padding and the vinyl
flooring. What remains on the slab is unspeakably awful.
Neighbors begin to come over to introduce themselves
to this stinky new neighbor, and more importantly, see
what is going on “over there.” Everything
is fine until Neighbor Number 3 comes over with her
children, who express their serious disappointment that
the garage no longer contains lots of fun things for
them to play with. I explain to the children that I
am really boring, hoping they will stay away forever.
This excites Neighbor Number 3, and she begins to tell
me all about her strong family values. I smile and nod;
wondering how long it is going to take for this woman
to get a clue. I smile for real when I imagine her reaction
when 40 queers of all descriptions show up for the first
work party and I explain that they are “family.”
Finally, finally, a friend comes over with a sandwich
and a soda. I ask where my partner is. “Shopping”
is the only reply. I resignedly eat my sandwich and
reflect on the fact that I am so hungry I don’t
care that I smell like a goat, so tired that I don’t
care that my partner is out spending money on stuff
we don’t need, and so pleased with myself that
even chicken salad on a stale croissant tastes great.
As time goes by and my friends and I work on the “house,”
I realize that this little fling has turned into a full-blown
affair. Let’s examine the evidence: I think about
the house whenever I’m not with it, I spend all
my free time with the house, I spend all my money on
the house, my friends wish I would shut up about the
house. Sounds like it might be love.
Life is good.
Deb Murphy is a freelance technical writer and a
for-hire home/office renovator. She lives in Houston
and may be reached at Possumproducts@cs.com.
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