Room for Rent
by Karen Williams | August 19, 2005
Seminole Chronicle
It tripped me.
A neighborhood house with a "For Sale" sign stuck its foot out in the street and tripped me. And then it beckoned, "Come and buy me, dearie."
Never being one to ignore the commands of large inanimate objects, I pulled into the driveway. It so happened at that moment that the owner of the home was exiting her van, and she came over to my car.
"Are you possibly interested in buying this house?" she asked abruptly.
"Well, uh, yes," I stammered. (I'm also interested in winning the lottery, but it might not happen this century.)
I followed the owner in and she proceeded to show me around. I was amazed at the size of the place and also that anyone with kids and pets could live without a trace of clutter. They must have been lying in wait while the house tripped me.
As I surveyed room after room of the sprawling dwelling, I began to envision myself living here.
Scene 1: I am serving Thanksgiving dinner to a horde of relatives in the huge dining area as a fire flickers on the hearth and people rave about the Stove Top stuffing.
Scene 2: I am shopping mall after mall in a frenzied attempt to buy enough clothes to fill the cavernous master bedroom closet.
Scene 3: The local garden club strolls about, admiring the lavishly landscaped backyard, while I, like Esther Williams, perform a water ballet in the kidney-shaped swimming pool. It is synchronized swimming - my floaty and I.
Scene 4: I stash boxes of mementoes, broken sports equipment and archaic garden tools in the ample garage, and I actually have room to park my car, as well as a couple of semi trucks.
Scene 5: I am holding wedding receptions and small soccer tournaments on the huge screened-in porch.
Scene 6: I am sitting blissfully on the front step, far removed from the deafening music ever emitted from my teenage daughter's bedroom. For once, I hear only the melodic chirps of birds and my own tinnitus.
Scene 7: I clean out three supermarkets in order to stock the gargantuan walk-in pantry, and there's room left over for spare furniture.
In a reverie of domestic enchantment, I made an appointment to see the home again that evening with a realtor. I brought my boyfriend Mark along, fully expecting him to love the house as much as I did and maybe even "pop the question" in the process.
"How do you like it, darling?" I asked after we'd had the full tour and our legs were aching.
"The porch needs to be finished," he replied. "The bathrooms need to be remodeled, the fence is an eyesore and the roof appears damaged. What were you thinking?"
Thud - the Thanksgiving turkey fell from the oven. The garage began to reek of truck oil. Publix came to repossess the canned goods. And poor Esther Williams got a stitch in her side and chlorine down her windpipe.
"So - does this also mean you won't be popping the question?" I asked in disbelief.
"I already did," Mark said. "Remember I asked, 'What were you thinking?'"
"No, no, not that question," I clarified, as we walked to our cars. "I mean the question whereby you ask to rent out a room in my new home."
He stood looking puzzled as I left for the mall. Time to get a new swimsuit and rubber swim cap. The garden club members would be impressed out of their gourds.
***
Copyright 2005, Karen Williams
