We moved again. I repeat: again. Yes, we are now living in our third Florida house in less than three years. Yes, my husband and I really did buy each one, renovate it out the wazoo, spend five minutes sitting around saying “It’s perfect now. I love it. We’re never moving,” and then turn around and sell it.
No, we are not flippers like Tarek and Christina, though if we ever try renting a truck and doing the move ourselves again like this last time, we may end up divorced like them. By the way, see how happy my husband looks in this photo? That’s because we hadn’t started loading the truck yet. Subsequent moving day photos are limited to our respective mugshots. Let’s just say we got into a little kerfuffle about the percentage of truck space that had to be allotted for my shoes.
Although somewhere along the line, we seem to have turned into serial movers, we weren’t always. Back in North Carolina, we lived in one home for 20 years, and the next one for a perfectly respectable (or at least still-within-the-realm-of-sanity) six. But ever since my husband and I moved to the Gunshine State (Come on down and you’ll know that’s not a typo), we just can’t seem to break out of this nomadic pattern. And even though we’ve had many probing conversations about it during the commercials while watching Househunters marathons, we can’t figure out exactly why. But we do have a few theories…
- When we lived in Durham, NC, we were so proud of ourselves when we finally found the inner strength to break up with Time Warner Cable (Get thee behind us, Satan!) But then we arrived in Florida and discovered that lots of HOAs include cable service from Comcast (Satan’s not-nearly-as-nice brother). What can I say? We were weak, and we couldn’t look a gift demon in the mouth. Before we knew it, we were spending way too much time with people like Chip, Joanna, Drew and Jonathan, and best/worst of all, we had rekindled our long-lost relationship with Hilary Farr and David Visentin. You’d think we’d get wise to which side of Love It or List It we’re inevitably going to land on with our own house after watching one too many episodes, but every time a new one airs, we’re all over it like Fatass H. McTrump on a double-decker meatloaf and white bread sandwich. (The H stands for hat, in case you didn’t know.)
- Florida has caused us to lose our minds due to overexposure to
(a) sun: You know what they say, “Madmen, dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun.” And Floridians. Because– Work? What’s that? — Noon is about the time happy hour cranks up at the outdoor bars down here. Speaking of which…
(b) alcohol: They sell liquor at Sam’s Club and Publix, y’all! EVEN ON SUNDAY! That’s right, my former Bible Belt brethren (and sistren?), we Floridians may be on the fast train to hell, but we don’t even mind because we’ll have such a kickass buzz on when we get there.
(c) all the other crazies who live here: If you can’t beat ’em, make your wanted poster your Facebook photo, give your mom a giant wooden penis to use as a mailbox, toss a live gator through the drive-up window at your local Wendy’s, steal some Beanee Weenees and blame your “inner thug,” sit on your illegal gun and shoot yourself in your own beanee weenee, tell the cops your cat must have downloaded all that kiddie porn on your laptop and you have no idea how that big old bag of crack got wedged in yours, punch the Domino’s guy for forgetting your garlic knots — or, in our case, grab your moving boxes, packing tape and thinning wallet and get ready to move again. (I’d like to say I made up all these examples of beyond-batshit-crazy because I’m super creative, but that would be fake news.)
- We’re on a mission to prove to Floridians that
(a) painting your home’s interior shouldn’t be undertaken like a kid hell-bent on coloring with every single one of his new Crayolas, including that ugly-ass peach one reminiscent of something the elementary school janitor used to throw green sawdust on.
(b) like Confederate monuments, the dirt in your grout lines does need to go, and, no, getting rid of it won’t erase your history. We promise.
(c) the term “renovated kitchen” should mean more than dusting the tacky artificial plants on top of your cabinets once a decade. (And before you jump to the conclusion that we’re unfairly stereotyping Floridians as people with horrific taste, you should know that we don’t hold with stereotyping. Period. Anyway, it’s all the damn snowbird Yankees down here who can’t decorate for shit.)
- It’s not about being in Florida at all. It’s that we’ve simply matured into fine people compelled by a selfless and insatiable need to leave the world better than we found it, one renovated home at a time. This explanation is my personal favorite. Of course, the chance of it being true is roughly equivalent to that of Kellyanne Conway having a good hair day. But who cares? It makes us sound awesome, so I’m sticking with it. After all, a not-so-little orange bird told me that if you “tweet” it often enough, you’ll start to believe it. Even if nobody else does.
Now, if only David Visentin could get that bird to move out of the big white house he lives in.