Hitting a wall

My first big mistake upon arriving in Florida was assuming that all houses are created equal. Well, that the walls are all made of the same materials, anyway.
I’ve moved several times in my life, and when I reach a new home, one of the first things I like to do is hang up my pictures. Maybe it’s because I can’t stand the vast blankness of white walls, or maybe it’s because my movie posters and framed cartoon of cats sitting around a table playing Hungry Hungry Hippo or the stretched canvas frames of seashells make a new place feel like home. However, pictures don’t just stick to a wall by themselves. You need a hammer and nails. Just a hammer and nails … right?
I knew where I had packed the nails, but for some reason the hammer was missing. For five days I searched in every box looking for the hammer. I searched the same box multiple times, knowing that I had just glanced over the hammer during the previous search. Even more frustrating was that I knew I owned more than one hammer!
Finally, a week after moving in, I walked into the laundry/mud room where I was storing things and I saw a box full of stuff I don’t use. Inside, I noticed a bag dedicated to emergency medical supplies for my pets. At my old place in North Carolina, this bag had been kept on the same shelf as the hammer. I thought to myself, “I bet someone put the hammer in this bag while helping me pack.” Sure enough, I unzipped the bag and there was the hammer I had been so desperately hunting.
With great glee, I immediately grabbed a thick, long nail and started planning where I would hang the first picture. After a careful measuring to find the middle of the wall, I started hammering the nail. It took about three hits of the hammer on the nail head for me to realize that sucker wasn’t going in the wall. I hammered and hammered, but the nail stayed put.
My first thought was maybe I’d hit a stud in the wall (I now have been told that would have been a good thing!), so I moved the nail to the left. Bang! Bang! Bang! The sound of the hammer striking the nail echoed within my house, sending the pets scattering in fear.
After getting nowhere, I thought the nail must be the problem. So, I grabbed a shorter nail. After I got the point into the wall, I started taking out all my frustration on the nail and didn’t hold back in beating on it with the hammer. It’s a miracle I didn’t put a hole in the wall. The end result was my nail was bent in two places.

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The sad, useless nail

Finally I texted my boss, Steve Bauer, who has turned into my walking, talking “How to succeed at being a Floridian” self-help book. Earlier, I had asked him to please bring a hammer to the office the next day since I couldn’t find mine. Now, I sent him a text saying I had found the hammer, but something was wrong with my nails.
“A lot of walls are made of concrete in Florida … the whole hurricane thing, you know,” Steve answered.
Concrete? Concrete!
“No, I didn’t!” I replied.
In North Carolina, we get hurricanes on occasion and small tornadoes, but no one builds their houses differently in preparation for those weather phenomenons. Maybe that’s shame on us, but I had certainly never heard of it. I have since learned that houses in Florida must be built to withstand hurricane-force winds.
Steve told me I’d need to drill a hole in the wall and use a screw anchor, but I’m impatient so thank God for Command Strips. I had purchased a few to hang up posters without frames and ended up using them all on framed photos. The next morning everything was still hanging in place, and I walked out the door on a mission to purchase Command Strips after work.
Keep following From Carolinian to Arcadian to read more about my adventures battling cockroaches and dealing with the heat.

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Command Strips are my best friend!