So I’m at the stage in my life where a lot of my friends are thinking about retiring. People are looking at real estate with actual intent, not just as house porn.
Not me.
We are never going to move out of this house. I love this house. When we remodeled 10-ish years ago, it was with the intention of retiring in this house. We put in grab bars. Wide doorways. Laundry upstairs. It’s an awesome house.
But…. I also need it to change. I get fidgety if things stay the same for too long. It makes my brain itch. I was that kid who, on any random night, would be completely rearranging their bedroom. My parents were awesome about it. “You want to change your room? Knock yourself out. Here’s the paint. Go to town.”
I still do that. But instead of a bedroom, I have a whole house. SO MANY ROOMS TO REARRANGE. Which is so much fun!
Except…
It turns out, if you live with a family of Aspies (and OMG HOW DID I NOT REALIZE THAT *BOTH* OF MY KIDS WERE MINI VERSIONS OF MY HUSBAND?! BOTH OF THEM!!), and a blind cat, that your ministrations might not be appreciated.
Hrumph, I say. HRUMPH.
They can learn new patterns. They are all mostly adults. And as long as the litter box and food stay in the same place, the cat will survive. He walks into doorways and walls *all the time*, and they never move. So that’s on him, really.
ANYWAY.
I’m telling you all this to explain why I’m looking at sleeper sofas. Because the basement is in change.
It was once a storage room, then a skating rink for 5 year olds (oh man, that was so awesome), then a guest room, then a pool (and not the fun kind — not “swimming”, but more, “cess” — but we took care of that with that whole French drain/sump pump thing that is so trendy these days). Then it became an art room. It was an art room for a long time. Now there is less art, and more socializing.
SO MUCH SOCIALIZING. With other teenagers. And snacking. And TV. In my living room. Which is right next to my office. Which is IN MY HOUSE.
And I want to be THAT house. The one where all the kids hang out. I’ve always wanted to be that house. We can pretend that it’s because I love kids and want to provide a safe place for them to relax, but really, it’s mostly laziness. I put a huge swingset in the back yard and invited the kids’ friends to play whenever they wanted so I didn’t have to go to the playground every day. I have all the good snacks because, well, I like snacks! And if my teenagers are hanging out at my house, I don’t have to be on standby to taxi them places.
I’m no spring chicken, you know. All that running around can be exhausting.
But also, I do actually like to host. I LOVE to host.
This is my dirty little secret.
Oooooh, bet you didn’t think we were going THERE when you started reading this, did you?
Hah! Yeah. I love to host. That’s not the secret. Everyone knows that.
I love having happy hours on my patio. [Covid kinda sucked the fun out of that one, but in the last two years, I’ve turned my patio and yard into a tiny farm, because… well, everyone needed a Covid hobby. And I sucked at making sourdough.]
I host because I’m not a good guest. I get anxious. I’m pretty sure I’m going to do or say something stupid. Or drink too much. Or drink too much and then say something REALLY stupid. Or just stand by the snack table and eat all the shrimp.
Usually I will latch onto the closest person I know and just stand by them all night. Or I will do the time-tested and mother-approved, “How do deal with the first day of school when I feel like nobody wants to sit with me” strategy: I look around for someone who looks even more anxious than me and I go say hi, and tell them I like their Trapper Keeper. Or shoes. Sometimes I just go with shoes. But usually, I just feel angsty.
And then, after all that, I don’t know when to leave, because I don’t know HOW to leave. Goodbyes are weird. Do we hug? Do the European cheek-kiss thing? High-five? If I’m going to see everyone the next week, or the next day, a big goodbye seems like overkill. And I’m Southern-ish. A big goodbye is necessary. There’s no simple, “Great, thanks, see you soon!” and out the door. You start with that. But by the time you actually leave 15 minutes later, you’ve invited them to dinner, made a coffee date, and arranged for your children to someday marry. And you do all this KNOWING that they are just trying to get you out the door so they can sit down and put their feet up and talk about how quickly they ran out of shrimp.
So, yeah, I’m not a good guest. I get a little angsty.
So I host. Because then I have purpose. I have to get the snacks out (we NEVER run out of shrimp). I make sure everyone is talking to someone. I am in my own space, and I’m feeding people and making them comfortable and I love it.
That’s it. That’s the dirty little secret. I like to host.
And I love having people visit me from out of town. Because I get to do all that, AND cook. AND we can sit on the couch at night and text each other. And I get to take them to my favorite restaurants.
[I just realized an awful lot of this story is about access to food. Clearly, that’s going to have to be examined in another story, another day. ]
“OH MY GOD!” I hear you saying to me. “JUST GET TO THE POINT! What does this have to do with the basement??”
Well, the sleeper sofa, really. I am looking at sleeper sofas.
Because I’m having guests in January! And my awesome attic library/guest room has been taken over by a teenager who decided that they wanted to move their bedroom. So their old bedroom is a much smaller guest room. Fine for one person, but definitely not for a group. I need a better guest room.
And I have this basement that isn’t being used anymore. And all these teenagers that are here all the time. And guests… did I mention I’m having guests in January?
It’s time to re-do the basement. I need seating. And sleeping.
So I’m looking at sleeper chairs. And sleeper sofas.
And I saw this.
And I’m telling you all this, this ridiculously long story, to explain why I’m showing you this picture.
Because “humanized armrest” might be my favorite description in all the couches and chairs I’ve seen today.
Also, to let you know, that I’m sorry about all the shrimp.
And we should totally get coffee next week.
Um… okay. Bye.
