Home Suite
One of the things I wanted to do while we were in Salt Lake was treat Simon to his first Parade of Homes. Contrary to what the name suggests, one does not experience the Parade of Homes from a lawn chair set up on Main Street, cooler of beverages at hand and always the possibility that some nice float-rider will throw taffy at your head, if not directly into your mouth. No, this parade involves driving and driving and driving and driving, but all in the name of touring new homes and indulging the part in all of us that, no matter how humble, really wouldn't, if given the chance, say no to six bedrooms, eight baths, a hot tub, a pool with two waterslides, and a plasma screen on every wall, including the one made of imported Italian tile on which the pure crystal toilet-paper mount is installed.
Although not every house in the parade is a bank-buster, there were thirty-five homes to choose from and since we only wanted to spend one day (aaaalllll day) poking around in them, we had to narrow it down. Good thing my parents dig this sort of thing as much as we do: they previewed almost all of the homes the week before we arrived so they could, at our request, take us to visit "only the most ridiculous and disgusting" of the million- and multimillion-dollar models. One of the houses had a kiddy pirate cove with a slide that went down past the hot tub (and plasma screen) to the doorway of the raquetball court. Which is to say it was everything we'd hoped for.
I say that none of us would mind five or six thousand square feet of top-of-the-line, full-featured and fully wired house to call home, but realistically of course, I found myself wrinkling my nose at a lot of them. Who needs that? Who deserves that? Hell, who wants to clean that? Simon, of course, wanted to smash all the extraneous televisions (he wants to cancel our cable too, but I've convinced him to let me keep it at least until I'm done breastfeeding, which I now hope to continue through 2015), but he was completely on board with the rest of it--twelve-foot-high marble columns in the foyer, kitchens the size of our entire first floor, and home theaters that seat thirty on a combination of recliners and full-size leather sofas and stools tucked behind granite bars and beanbag chairs that could swallow a man whole. "Now, how can I get rich?" he'd say as we exited through one of the property's four or five garages.
We regularly go to a handful of more modest open houses every month, and although we have a ready excuse for wasting the realtor's time when we already have a house we love--"We're looking for his sister"--I'm sure nobody is fooled about what we're really there for--a glimpse into an alternate life. We peruse these properties with an eye to where our furniture would fit, how we would decorate, how we would cut down that tree so we could have a clear view from the master bedroom to the backyard mini-golf course. "This would be the music studio," Simon always says about some out-of-the-way alcove.
Fantasizing about a richer life can be frustrating or maddening or depressing (sometimes all three) and, yes, even I, who have no desire to live in anything that might pass as a "mansion," sometimes feel the sting of being so close to--close enough to touch--something I'll never have, even had I the means by some Publisher's Clearinghouse Miracle. I don't want three sprawling floors of furniture handcrafted entirely by Amish artisans, or a living room with ceilings so high it costs a semester's college tuition to pay the heating bill, or even a plasma screen in every other room. But man it's fun to think about what it would be like. (Perhaps more fun for me to think about it because I don't covet the way Simon does.)
But that's just it: seeing these homes is merely fantasizing about a richer life--a monetarily richer life, that is--and not necessarily a better life. Not to get all pregnancy-hormone-schmooshy-schmoo on you yet again, but we are living our best life right now. As Simon pointed out last night, and as we both reflect on often: "Life is really really good." We were sitting on our cat-clawed sofa, me with our baby in my belly, he with "our" martini in his, people were winning medals left and right in crisp, clear, brilliant high-definition (thank you, cable!) on our non-plasma TV, and no amount of money could have added to or taken from that moment (the loss of cable excepted). Home is where the heart is. Home is where you hang your hat. Home is where you can take off your shoes but you don't have to if you don't want to. Home sweet humble, imperfect, crumbling, just-right home.
Frankly, I tell people to leave their shoes on in my house because we have wood floors that get SO dusty and I dont' vacuum nearly often enough.
That pirate cove slide? Hilarious.
Wow. Totally wow. You should come tour my house - you could leave your shoes on. Heck, you can even put your shod feet up, for pete's sake.
I kind of love that all the shoes have been removed from the basket. It's so passively snarky.
I used to design homes like these and I found it depressing. Not because I wanted what they had but because it was just so much excess, so much waste all I could think about was people who were living in straw huts with barely any food to eat. And here were my clients asking me for a larger more expensive chandelier so that they would have a bigger one than their second cousin. It honestly made me sick and after two years I had to leave.
Well, those people may be loaded, but they have no mastery of quotation marks. I don't know about you, but that makes ME feel better.
I don't know how anyone is ever comfortable in big-ass houses like that - they just look so...un-cozy and impersonal.
When we travel, we prefer to rent a very nice house instead of dropping a ton of cash at a hotel. This February, we will be staying in a gigantic house in Colorado that has everything down to the billiards room, sauna and plasma screen mounted next to the hot tub. There are seven of us going on the trip, so the expense is spread out, and we get to pretend for a week that we live that way.
You hit the nail on the head, my friend. We are not monetarily rich, but our cup of life and love is running over.
Oh, I love watching the home shows on HGTV. House Porn, as I call it.
Also, I HATE it when folks wear shoes in my house. Years of dating foreigners, then actually marrying a foreigner cured me of wearing shoes in the house.
Down with shoes! Up with feet! Save the carpet!
I always have the urge to walk up and knock on the doors of similar houses in my area and ask, "Excuse me, but an English degree didn't happen to pay for all this, did it?"
I'm with you on everything. Home sweet modest messy rented home (for us). But yes, yes, yes, life in that modest messy rented home is so sweet right now.
(Not that a pirate cove wouldn't be pretty damn cool.)
This is so sweet -- lovely, and true. Home is totally wherever -- and whatever -- you make it.
hahaha. but my husband always makes me take my shoes off. it's a canadian thing. ;)
We have several sets of friends who have houses ranging from 2,500 to 4,000 square feet. What ends up happening, especially on the upper end, is that they live in exactly one third of the house (equal to our entire house). And they get to clean the entire thing.
Not us. I'll be fine if we never have a house over 2,000 square feet. When it's not 300 degrees outside, we live outdoors anyway. Get used to that: you're having a boy!
What's up with the quotation marks around the "please?" Man.....money can buy a lot of things, but GOOD GRAMMAR is not one of them.....
Honestly, who would even THINK to put a pirate slide in a house?
We're currently living in a tight, poorly laid out but with a killer kitchen 1000 sq.ft. I could maybe go for an extra 500 but that's it! Kids don't need their own rooms! We don't need a den, living room AND a study. Who wants to furnish all that anyway?
I have cousins in Ireland whose house is 800 sq. feet? which is a generous estimate. Two parents and 4 boy children lived there. I can do it with my space.
I sometimes go through moments of feeling that I must not be truly happy or successful because I don't own anything that is impressive. I should be grateful for what I have, and proud that I got it on my own. As usual, you've given me something to think about.