Better Than New

by Nicole Curtis

  But now my plan needed some adjusting. Bartending and going to school full-time was no longer viable. Something had to give. The other challenge was that Steve had to fulfill a contract out of town beginning when I was just three months into my pregnancy. I put on a brave face. I pulled together an impressive résumé and interviewed for a job as a key accounts representative at a cell phone company. What was that? I had no idea, but I figured I had mastered cell phone sales before, so there was only one thing that was going to happen: I had to get that job. After the owners hired me—offering an impressive salary of thirty thousand dollars a year plus commissions—they looked at me and asked, “How old are you?” I told them I was twenty, and I could see from the look on their faces that they were thinking, What have we done? There’s something that happens when you come across obstacles: You either learn to jump through the hoops or you stumble and land on your face. I assured them that they could hire someone older with more experience, but not someone with more drive. I gave my notice at the Fox and Hounds and threw myself into school and my new job.

  Ethan’s first Easter.

  It was a difficult time and I missed Steve like crazy, but every day that beautiful baby moved inside me, I knew I was taking on the role I felt destined for: Mom.

  I remember celebrating my twenty-first birthday and my Gram hugging me and saying everything was going to be okay. It was just a few months before Ethan would be born, and my wonderful Gram sensed my worry. I leaned into that hug and cried my eyes out. I just needed reassurance, and I always found it in her arms.

  The next few months flew by, and before I knew it, I was walking out of the hospital with Ethan in my arms. Oh, how I had never known such love. I was so happy with that little baby in my life. Tired. Exhausted. But filled with joy. However, the one thing I lacked at twenty-one was faith in my parental instincts—I was leery of trusting my gut. Everyone had an opinion about what I was supposed to do, and how I was supposed to raise Ethan. All that unasked-for advice can prey on you, and it sapped my energy.

  If only I could go back and talk to young Nicole, I’d tell her, “Take a deep breath and relax.”

  Soon I was back at work. I would’ve loved to stay home and be with Ethan all day, but Steve was still gone and we needed my income. It killed me to drop him off at day care early in the morning and not see him again until early evening. Even worse, my idealistic vision of balancing work, baby, breast-feeding, and home life all quickly vanished. There is nothing more heartbreaking than having a breast pump connected to you in a dirty bathroom stall rather than having your darling infant at your breast. All of this led to more than just a mere resentment of Steve’s absence. When Steve returned to Michigan, I was able to quit my job, yet we struggled to adjust. I wasn’t used to having a party of three, and quite honestly, he wasn’t used to living a life where family took priority. He had been living like a bachelor and I had been living like a single mom those first few months after Ethan’s birth. Even though we were moments away from moving into our new house on a lake—which, to my surprise, I had been able to finance on my own—and seemed to have everything going for us on the outside, on the inside it was daily arguing and conflict. I was all of twenty-one years old, but I knew I just wanted a healthy home environment in which to raise this child and I couldn’t quiet the nagging feeling that maybe the best way to provide it was to be on my own.

  Our time in the Indian Lake Road back apartment.

  When Steve left for a work trip, I packed what I could into a few suitcases and left. I took refuge in an empty apartment on my grandparents’ property. It was far from glamorous, and it was most humbling to give up a beautiful home on a lake and everything that life was supposed to entail, but the truth was, I was broke. The apartment had been occupied by any number of my family members at one time or another when life smacked them upside the head, and now it was my turn. I took some time to figure out how to get back on track. I couldn’t return to a nine-to-five job and go to school at the same time. It just wouldn’t work. So I put my ego aside and went back to bartending. I felt like I was back at square one. It wasn’t easy and I ate more twenty-five-cent potpies than I care to admit, all while Steve was living in our lake house, driving a Mercedes, and making more money than we had ever imagined. I was living in seven hundred square feet of space. I painted the place and did the best I could with nothing but scraps of this and that, but to add insult to injury, my new living room had to house that damn futon from West Pearl Avenue. Looking back, I have no idea where my courage to leave came from, but it doesn’t matter. When my days are difficult now, I think back to those moments in the small apartment. It was there—out of pure desperation—that I knew I had to end that relationship in order to find a path forward. Having nothing and being at your lowest point tends to make you creative.

  A proud moment: my baby and my first (and only) business vehicle.

  I transferred to a four-year college to get my teaching degree and was taking a full class load. But when I was unable to get a sitter on New Year’s Eve, I was fired from my bartending job. I was devastated; I had just started to get back on my feet. A friend who pulled no punches said, “It’s the best thing that has ever happened to you; you are never going to focus on getting what you want when you’re secure in what you have.” In other words, the bartending was paying the bills and I was getting comfortable with it and losing sight of my goal to work for myself. That week, I did what I do best: I created a new avenue. I sat down and made up cleaning flyers. I had to find work, and it had to be more flexible than just some nine-to-five job or another bartending gig.

  Our first Christmas photo in front of the Ferndale house (top). Ethan playing dress-up in our new home (bottom).

  The next day, I popped Ethan into a baby carrier, hoisted it onto my back, and started pounding the pavement. I went to every nearby apartment complex and rubber banded the flyers to doorknobs. Within two weeks, I had enough jobs to fill my calendar.

  I saw cleaning houses as my gold mine. My mind is like a spreadsheet at all times. I got it down to a science. I knew how many pieces of paper towel it took for each house, how many ounces of Windex. I knew to the penny what my overhead was and I soon realized that by hiring someone to work with me, I could double my client list. All the while, those college credits were adding up, and I was finally able to take my teaching certification exam. I passed. And while that should have been my moment of feeling accomplished, I was faced with the reality that if I went on to finish my teaching degree and do the required student teaching (with six months of no pay), I would ultimately come out making a third of what I was making cleaning houses. Looking back, I realize I was a bit shortsighted. But at that moment, I had a little boy who I wanted to make sure had everything his heart desired, and that meant a house, a backyard, and Disney vacations. I made the decision to put off school right then and there. With school off my calendar, I doubled my business.

  Ethan was always by my side working with his smock on.

  In no time at all—well, fifteen months in that back apartment—with money I had saved up and the proceeds of the sale of the Tampa house, I bought a fabulous 1928 bungalow in Ferndale, an up-and-coming suburb of Detroit. The house needed work, but I didn’t care. I ripped into it with a newfound passion, uncovering all the beautiful features of an old house. I tore out the outdated carpeting and walked on the original oak floors; I peeled back the vinyl wallpaper and applied fresh paint on plaster. Ethan was so excited working alongside me. We didn’t have much, but I was so proud to finally own a home again. I remember one time saying to Steve how tired I was from working on the house, and that it must be nice being able to pay someone to do everything. (He had moved nearby, and had the money to hire someone to work on his house.) He replied, “You wouldn’t have it any other way.” He was right. Those days are so vivid in my mind.

  The simple life: renovating and having fun with Ethan.

 
The redesign of the Ferndale house along with years of knowing hundreds of different homes intimately through cleaning them led me to offer unsolicited design ideas to my clients. I would see the money they were paying designers for designs that just weren’t feasible or sustainable. So with many houses, I would leave sketches along with an appointment card only to see on my next visit that they had been tossed in the garbage. After all, I was just the housecleaner. Still, I was finding that my hunger for design was growing each day. I placed an ad on Craigslist offering design services for free if I could photograph the work and add it to my portfolio. And this is why I laugh now when people ask me how they can do what I do designing homes. I always say, “Work for free.” I’ve never been formally trained in interior design. Some in the field will say that it shows, and that’s okay. I actually like not going by anything other than my gut instinct. When you don’t have an example of what to do, everything you do is original. I laugh now looking back—in six years at my Ferndale house, I accomplished what I can now do in three weeks. We made so many memories in that little home. While I was obsessing over the historical renovation, I was also adding my own design. I took three months painting a Spider-Man mural for Ethan in his room, only to have the little guy look up at me and say, “I don’t think I like Spider-Man anymore, Mommy,” after I finished. Of all my houses, I still know every square inch of that one, and I can’t help but recall all the hours spent working on it and the little moments when Ethan thought I needed a pick-me-up and would appear out of nowhere in his kangaroo suit just to make me laugh.

  Ethan during our Ferndale years.

  Ethan went from being a stumbling toddler to starting kindergarten. Time was flying by. I can’t express how grateful I am to have recognized early on that this was the best time of my life. I wouldn’t start my workday until after dropping off E at school, and I would finish by the time he was done. I didn’t care if I was scrubbing someone else’s toilets, it was giving me the freedom I wanted as a mom and financial stability.

  Steve and me taking Ethan on a family vacation (left). Ethan and me in California visiting Steve (right).

  There was also a lot of growing up and change going on outside of that home. Steve and I struggled for many years to find our way when it came to shared parenting. Even though I was convinced that my being on my own would bring us peace, the relationship went from bad to worse. I hadn’t planned on a custody battle that involved lawyers, court dates, and strangers having an opinion about our parenting. Luckily, we came to our senses and realized that this fight wasn’t about a meaningless futon—it was about our baby. We went from being the couple who exchanged the baby at the police station to the family at Disney World together. It wasn’t perfect, but we had a good run for a long time. And there was no “his time” or “my time,” just Ethan’s time.

  As Ethan was entering second grade, Steve made the difficult decision to accept a job in California. Before moving, he took Ethan away for a long weekend and I found myself home alone with the two dogs, Polly and Max. (A lesson to all parents: If you take your cute little boy to “look” at dogs, you will come home with a dog, or maybe even two.) I’m not someone who normally needs a night out. But my friend Rick, knowing that Ethan was away with his dad, called and said he and some friends were going to a club called Temple. I told him I might swing by. I was worn out from a hectic week and missing Ethan. I really just wanted to distract myself by cleaning my house and maybe reorganizing my already organized closet. However, at 9 p.m., I got my second wind. I decided, What the heck? I’ll go out for a bit.

  Temple was an upscale restaurant that switched over into a trendy dance club at night. The place was hopping when I walked through the door. Rick was nowhere to be found, and my anxiety set in. I found myself standing at the bar wishing I were back at home. The DJ was spinning, and I was right next to the dance floor, which was dotted with large, lighted Plexiglas cubes that anyone could get up on and dance. Standing on one put you front and center; if you were dancing on one of them, you were either the most secure person in the world or just really drunk.

  Party of three: Polly, Ethan, and me.

  I watched as a boyishly handsome guy walked by. He was dressed well, with the clean-cut good looks of a frat boy. Suddenly, a girl jumped down from one of the cubes and collided with him. The guy went flying, ending up sprawled on his butt right in front of me. He let out a shout of surprise and looked up at me.

  “I saw the whole thing. A clear case of assault. I’ll testify,” I offered. He laughed as I helped him up.

  That’s how I met Christopher; I didn’t know it then, but that night out would lead to Rehab Addict. After he dusted himself off, he offered to buy me a drink. I said no thanks, that I was actually getting ready to leave as soon as I could find my friends. So he ordered a beer and we started talking. He was funny, and to be honest, I was quite proud of myself for being out and not at home curled up with Max and Polly. His friends joined us. I hung out with them until about one in the morning. As everyone was getting ready to go, Christopher and I were waiting for the valet and he still hadn’t asked for my number. So I took the initiative and said, “Are you going to ask me for my number or what?” Even as in my head I heard my Gramps saying, “Never chase the man.” Christopher looked shocked and said, “I didn’t think you were interested in me. Of course I want your number.”

  We moved in October; Ethan and Polly had fun in the leaves in our Southwest Minneapolis home.

  Christopher and I shared ambition and an abundance of energy. It was clear from the start that we were both risk takers. While I was starting my businesses and being a mom, he was out traveling the world. He had been valedictorian of his high school class and had earned an MBA after graduating from an Ivy League college, which made him believe he was guaranteed success. The most successful people I knew did not have an MBA—they had street smarts. But I was still intrigued by his drive.

  Ironically, just as Christopher and I started hitting our groove, he was offered a really great position with a company in Minneapolis. He asked me if I wanted to move with him. We had had a great first six months. Ethan got along well with Christopher. The dogs liked him, and I felt like we had the same goal of eventually working for ourselves. Looking back, we were both a bit naive. Had we left it there, gone our separate ways, I think we would have remained good friends. But I’ve always been a romantic, and you read enough stories about people who meet, fall in love, and are married happily ever after that you start to think: Why am I fighting this? By then, Steve was living in California, and with everything going on with Detroit, I thought this was something I should just go with. Plus, Christopher made me laugh. So off we went. The plan was to spend eighteen months in Minneapolis, save money, and then head to California.

  Our first Halloween in Minneapolis.

  We rented a house in Southwest Minneapolis, and I was pretty confident that I would be able to find a “career” quickly, with all the companies headquartered in the city. I loved being a team, dropping E off at his new school, volunteering, cooking dinner, and just relaxing for a moment. The job leads led to dead ends. But I was happy to just be able to focus on being a mom, planning parties, attending field trips, and doing my best to make sure that E was happy and making friends. As the mother of an only child, you constantly feel that your child is missing out. Ethan didn’t have a sibling to play with, so I looked for opportunities for him to meet other kids. Being a baseball fan, I had always helped with his Little League teams in Michigan. So in Minneapolis I joined forces with some great people to coach baseball. But while I was quite content being a stay-at-home mom, Christopher was all about dual incomes. I found a random job as an international relocation assistant. I was in charge of helping foreign executives adapt to living in Minnesota, which gave us a good laugh because I was new to Minneapolis myself and I was being paid to teach people about the city. My clients were from all over the world, and E was a
s fascinated with their stories as I was. The idea that they had thrown caution to the wind and gone to a foreign country made me a little more accepting of my failures in securing what I thought of as real work. I had my fill of cleaning houses after a decade and decided to focus on design in Minneapolis. I was still trying my hardest to attract new design clients—anything to avoid a “real” job that would require me to be somewhere from nine to five. But I quickly found that “Minnesota nice” meant someone would say, “I’d love to work with you; let me get your number,” and then never call. I was getting my first taste of passive-aggressive behavior, and it was rough.

  I was working full-time in real estate and renovating our house at the same time.

  At one point, convinced I would be hired for a commercial design position, I was shocked to hear the young human resources recruiter tell me, “You’re just not a good fit for us.” I called Christopher crying, and he said, “Maybe you aren’t.” I was pissed. That day he did something that would change the course of my life—he made a call to a real estate broker we had been working with to find a house. He told me that night, “I signed you up to get your real estate license.” Knowing Christopher, it was certainly more financially driven than supportive. But it made me ask, Why didn’t I do this sooner? Being a real estate agent was a natural next step. I knew the ins and outs from my own property investments, and I knew renovation and design, so I could offer that insight. Most of all, my part-time gig as a relocation assistant proved more than anything that I had the skills to help people find a home. But I hadn’t really thought of it as a lucrative career. The few times I had worked with real estate agents, I had been frustrated because they did little more than let me into a house so that I could look around. I had done sales all my life. I knew I could move houses and do a whole lot more than turn a key. But more important, Christopher pointed out, “Nic, one house nets you 2.7 percent of the sales price. Do the math! It takes you two or three clients to make that now.”