Kathryn Nicolai (5:38)

That'S changed my daily routine in the best possible way. You know those days when your gut.

Narrator (5:46)

Just doesn't feel right?

Kathryn Nicolai (5:48)

Maybe you're bloating or you have inconsistent digestion, or just that sluggish feeling holds you back from really enjoying your day.

Narrator (5:57)

I used to have those days a.

Kathryn Nicolai (5:58)

Lot until I started using Probiotic Breakthrough by Bioptimizers. And this isn't just another probiotic. Their patented strain multiplies inside your gut, which means it actually gets where it needs to go, unlike most probiotics that don't survive your stomach acid. What I love is how it supports that crucial gut brain connection, better focus, clearer thinking and more consistent energy throughout my day. All from getting my gut health right. The best part? Bioptimizers is so confident you'll love this that they offer a full 365 day money back guarantee. Right now you can save 10%@buyoptimizers.com nothingmuch and use the code nothingmuch. And if you subscribe, not only will you get amazing discounts and free gifts, you will make sure your monthly supply is guaranteed. Your gut and your whole day will thank you again. That's buyoptimizers.com nothingmuch we've got it linked in our show notes as well.

Narrator (7:13)

Okay, you are exactly where you are supposed to be right now. There's nothing you need to keep track of, nothing more is needed of you. Get as comfortable as you can, unclench your jaw, soften your shoulders and hands and feel the touch of your sheets and pillow. You are about to fall asleep and you will sleep deeply all night. Draw a slow breath in and sigh out again. Fill up and sigh good. Wallpaper and paint beside my chair where my binoculars hang for bird watching. Through the big picture window I noticed a small rip in the wallpaper, a curl of paper sticking out, just a half inch and as wide as my pinky. I reached out to touch it, trying to very hard not to pull on it. When I was a kid, my mom had papered the powder room near our front door. She'd been very careful about lining up the edges and matching the border to the dark blue of the stripe, and it had remained fairly pristine for several years, but we, her children and I suspect even her husband, had begun to peel it away whenever we found ourselves alone in there. It was too much to resist the satisfying feeling of sliding a finger under a spot where the paper had puckered and pulled away and to, slowly and in as big a strip as possible, remove it from the wall. Oh, my poor mother. Over the course of a summer her pretty, elegant powder room had been denuded, and as our destructive mischief always happened behind closed doors, she could never even catch us in the act. I smiled, remembering how that summer had ended with my brother and I standing shoulder to shoulder in the small room with the steamer and scraper in our hands and piles of gluey strips at our feet. Mom had switched to paint after that. I must not have learned my lesson, though. As soon as my fingertip found the curl of paper beside my chair, I A frisson of excitement went through me. This was my house. If I wanted to peel away the paper, I didn't have to hide it. I could change anything I wanted. And suddenly I wanted to change this room. My house is more of a cottage, really. It sits on a bluff that slopes down to a lake. The rooms are a bit small, and there are only a few closets and cupboards in the whole place, but I have a stone fireplace, butcher block counters well treated with mineral oil. There is a claw foot bathtub in the single bathroom, and when you open the windows in the loft, even on the hottest summer days, cool air from the lake washes in and makes me dream of lily pads as I sleep. The kitchen was airy and white, with wood beams in the ceiling that I hang copper pans from and slate floors warmed up with woolly rugs. The loft is strung with fairy lights and my bed made up with a giant sprigged cotton duvet, so soft and inviting it's difficult to get out of on rainy days. But this room, with my chair and the fireplace. Now that I looked at it, yes, it was time for an update. The wallpaper had a dark green and gray background with oversized stems of Queen Anne's lace and ferns unfurling from their fiddleheads I'd always loved made me feel like Alice shrunk down in the garden, but it was faded in places where pictures had hung, leaving squares of brighter colors behind them like better tuned television screens among a sea of muted greenery. It also hadn't been pasted on very well. There were air bubbles in places, spots where the pattern didn't match with the strip beside it, and if you looked at it too long you might begin to feel a bit cross eyed. So I pushed the furniture to the center of the room, tossed an old flat sheet over it and rolled up my sleeves. I'd done some reading on it and had a collection of tools to help me with my project. A scorer that would pop tiny holes into the paper to let water or solvent slip behind it and loosen the glue. A steamer and scraper and a few spray bottles. But before I put any of those implements to work, I indulged myself in just reaching for that little tail of dried out paper and slowly pulling it away from the wall. I had a sudden visceral memory of peeling the paper in the powder room, how often it would split or rip. Immediately I'd come away with a tiny scrap in my hand, decidedly unsatisfying, but every once in a while you'd have just the right angle on it and a huge sheet would come off. It reminded me of the feeling of trying to get the dregs of a finished candle from its jar when it unsticks from the glass and pops out in one whole piece. And much of my grown up living room was like that form now. The paper must have been very old. It was asking to come down in many places, and I could just slide my finger or the corner of my scraper under it and feel a chain reaction of popping as it released along the sheet and fell to my feet. There were a few spots around the windows and mantel where I did use the score and the steam. I gave the stubborn pieces a few minutes to soak up and soften and then scraped them away as well. When the walls were clear and paper free, I opened all the windows and gave them a day or two to dry out. I picked a beautiful pale green sea foam color that matched the lake on hazy days. And after I'd primed and taped, I opened up a fresh can of it and stirred it slowly, even this part, prying open the lid, stirring the thick liquid with a long, clean stir stick, and pouring it into my rolling tray, was full of pleasing moments. I became mesmerized as I worked, rolling out the paint, watching it spread and soak into the wall, the white primer overtaken by the soft, minty green. Did I still have a favorite color? I asked myself. This must be it, I answered. Outside, the seagrass bowed in the breeze, and from far off on the lake I could hear the splash of swimmers, their voices and laughter jumbled and ringing like chimes in the distance. When the paint was dry and I peeled off the tape, rehung my pictures, and arranged the furniture, I thought I might send a picture of the finished room to my mother, a nod to all the hard work it took to pull a space together that I understood better how she'd felt and had learned not just to tear down but to rebuild wallpaper and paint beside my chair where my binoculars hung for bird watching. Through the big picture window, I noticed a small rip in the wallpaper, a curl sticking out, just a half inch and as wide as my pinky. I reached out to touch it, trying very hard not to pull on it. When I was a kid, my mom had papered the powder room near our front door. She'd been very careful about lining up the edges and matching the border to the dark blue of the stripe, and it had remained fairly pristine for several years, but we, her children and I suspect, even her husband, had begun to peel it away whenever we found ourselves alone in there. It was too much to resist the satisfying feeling of sliding a finger under a spot where the paper had puckered and pulled away, and to slowly and in as big a strip as possible, remove it from the wall. Oh, my poor mother. Over the course of a summer, her pretty, elegant powder room had been denuded, and as our destructive mischief always happened behind closed doors, she could never even catch us in the act. I smiled, remembering how that summer had ended, with my brother and I standing shoulder to shoulder in the small room with the steamer scraper in our hands and piles of gluey strips at our feet. Mom had switched to paint after that. I must not have learned my lesson, though. As soon as my fingertip found the curl of paper beside my chair, a frisson of excitement went through me. This was my house. If I wanted to peel away the wallpaper, I didn't have to hide it. I could change anything I wanted, and suddenly I wanted to change this room. My house is more of a cottage, really it sits on a bluff that slopes down to a lake. The rooms are a bit small and there are only a few closets cupboards in the whole place, but I have a stone fireplace and butcher block counters well treated with mineral oil. There is a claw foot bathtub in the single bathroom and when you open the windows in the loft, even on the hottest summer days, cool air from the lake washes in and makes me dream of lily pads while I sleep. The kitchen was airy and white with wood beams in the ceiling that I hang copper pans from and slate floors warmed up with woolly rugs. The loft is strung with fairy lights and my bed made up with a giant sprigged cotton duvet. So soft and inviting and is difficult to get out of on rainy days. But this room with my chair and fireplace, now that I looked at it, yes, it was time for an update. The wallpaper had a dark green and gray background with oversized stems of Queen Anne's lace and ferns unfurling from their fiddleheads I'd always loved made me feel like Alice shrunk down in the garden. But it was faded in places where pictures had hung, leaving squares of brighter colors behind them like better tuned television screens among a sea of muted greenery. It also hadn't been pasted on very well. There were air bubbles in places, spots where the pattern didn't match with the strip beside it, and if you looked at it too long you might begin to feel a bit cross eyed. So I pushed the furniture to the center of the room, tossed an old flat sheet over it and rolled up my sleeves. I'd done some reading on it and had a collection of tools to help with my project, a score that would pop tiny holes into the paper to let water or solvent slip behind it and loosen the glue, a steamer and scraper and a few spray bottles. But before I put any of those implements to work, I indulged myself in just reaching for that little tail of dried out paper and slowly pulling it away from the wall. I had a sudden visceral memory of peeling the paper in the powder room, how often it would split or rip immediately and I'd come away with a tiny scrap in my hand. Decidedly unsatisfying, but every once in a while you'd have just the right angle on it and a huge sheet would come off. It reminded me of the feeling of trying to get the dregs of a finished candle from its jar when it unsticks from the glass and pops out in one whole piece. And much of my grown up living room was like that for me now. The paper must have been very old. It was asking to come down in many places, and I could just slide my finger or the corner of my scraper under it and feel a chain reaction of popping as it released along the sheet and fell to my feet. There were a few spots around the windows and mantel where I did use the score and the steam. I gave the stubborn pieces a few minutes to soak up and soften and then scraped them away as well. When the walls were clear and paper free, I opened all the windows and gave them a day to dry out. I'd picked a beautiful pale green sea foam color that matched the lake on hazy days, and after I'd primed and taped, I opened up a fresh can of it and stirred it slowly. Even this, prying open the lid, stirring the thick liquid with a long, clean stir stick, and pouring it into my rolling tray, was full of pleasing moments. I became mesmerized as I worked, rolling out the paint, watching it spread and soak into the wall, the white primer overtaken by the soft, minty green. Did I still have a favorite color? I asked myself. This must be it, I answered. Outside, the seagrass bowed in the breeze, and from far off on the lake I could hear the splash of swimmers, their voices and laughter jumbled and ringing like chimes in the distance. When the paint was dry and I peeled off the tape, rehung my pictures, and arranged the furniture, I thought I might send a picture of the finished room to my mother, a nod to all the hard work it took to pull a space together that I understood better how she'd felt and had learned not just to tear down but to rebuild. Sweet dreams.