little thing he’d pretended to let go in the last, say, three months.
Fused together, the list seemed unreasonably long in my opinion, and Greg’s laid-back attitude up to that point felt like an elaborate entrapment scam. So I would click into high-drama mode, pack a suitcase, and announce that life was too short to put up with this shit and thanks for the memories but I was out of here.
Greg would wait until I was almost to the door. He’d apologize. I’d apologize. We’d have great sex and put the suitcase away.
About three years or so into this pattern, I’d just finished an ovation-worthy speech and was flamboyantly pulling my suitcase out from under our bed.
Greg watched quietly. Finally he said, “Aren’t you still packed from last time?”
I looked up at him.
He raised his eyebrows.
We both totally cracked up.
Right after that, we ditched the birth control and I got pregnant with Shannon. And as much as I’d never completely lost the knack I’d inherited for high drama, and Greg could still be a virtuoso of silence, we tried to set a better example for our kids.
We also vowed early on to always present a united front and never to talk about each other to our children. When Luke was younger and I told him it was time for bed, he knew better than to run to his dad to try to get a reprieve. And when Greg was driving me crazy, I knew better than to bad-mouth him to Shannon.
I shook my head to bring myself back to Mrs. Bentley’s bedroom. I borrowed the painters to help me carry the heavy elliptical downstairs.
Mrs. Bentley’s basement was a total blast from the past—flecked acoustical ceiling tiles, orange shag carpeting. The Big Bird yellow of the Parsons tables popped against a brown-and-avocado-plaid sofa and armchair set. Above the couch a groovy chrome-framed Peter Max poster looked down on the plaid sofa as if to say this room isn’t big enough for both of us . A dark wood built-in bar dotted with bright yellow ashtrays took over one entire wall of the room.
When I was growing up, we’d had a bar just like this in our basement. It was my father’s pride and joy. I’d had my first Shirley Temple there, with two extra maraschino cherries, sitting on one of the padded vinyl barstools that spun all the way around. My sister and brother and I would crack open peanuts and were actually allowed to throw the shells on the cement floor. Then one day the rules mysteriously changed, and we got a linoleum floor and had to start putting the peanut shells in wooden bar bowls instead.
The next owner could turn this space into an Irish pub, or an old western-style saloon, or even a billiards room. But it was more likely that the basement would be gutted and turned into a media room, complete with theater-style seating and surround sound. If the old wooden bar were lucky enough to survive at all, it would become a movie concession stand.
If Denise’s boyfriend ever got around to actually calling me about that boutique hotel in Atlanta, I might try something elaborate like that, but for this job I was going for a quick fix. I’d turn this basement into an exercise room.
A big part of what home stagers do is create fantasy space. We’d already gotten rid of all the rest of the furniture in the room except for one overstuffed chair. The painters and I placed the elliptical in full view of the television. I threw a white terry cloth robe over the chair and arranged Mrs. Bentley’s exercise videos—mostly unopened, I noticed—on the bookshelf. I spread out an exercise mat on the freshly cleaned carpeting midway between the elliptical and the TV. I crisscrossed two shiny purple weights on top of the mat and placed a royal blue exercise ball beside it.
Next, I took down all the dusty old liquor bottles from the open shelves in the bar and boxed them up. Mrs. Bentley and her husband would have to either rent a storage unit or drink up all that booze fast. I lugged the boxes out to the garage. I rolled
Fused together, the list seemed unreasonably long in my opinion, and Greg’s laid-back attitude up to that point felt like an elaborate entrapment scam. So I would click into high-drama mode, pack a suitcase, and announce that life was too short to put up with this shit and thanks for the memories but I was out of here.
Greg would wait until I was almost to the door. He’d apologize. I’d apologize. We’d have great sex and put the suitcase away.
About three years or so into this pattern, I’d just finished an ovation-worthy speech and was flamboyantly pulling my suitcase out from under our bed.
Greg watched quietly. Finally he said, “Aren’t you still packed from last time?”
I looked up at him.
He raised his eyebrows.
We both totally cracked up.
Right after that, we ditched the birth control and I got pregnant with Shannon. And as much as I’d never completely lost the knack I’d inherited for high drama, and Greg could still be a virtuoso of silence, we tried to set a better example for our kids.
We also vowed early on to always present a united front and never to talk about each other to our children. When Luke was younger and I told him it was time for bed, he knew better than to run to his dad to try to get a reprieve. And when Greg was driving me crazy, I knew better than to bad-mouth him to Shannon.
I shook my head to bring myself back to Mrs. Bentley’s bedroom. I borrowed the painters to help me carry the heavy elliptical downstairs.
Mrs. Bentley’s basement was a total blast from the past—flecked acoustical ceiling tiles, orange shag carpeting. The Big Bird yellow of the Parsons tables popped against a brown-and-avocado-plaid sofa and armchair set. Above the couch a groovy chrome-framed Peter Max poster looked down on the plaid sofa as if to say this room isn’t big enough for both of us . A dark wood built-in bar dotted with bright yellow ashtrays took over one entire wall of the room.
When I was growing up, we’d had a bar just like this in our basement. It was my father’s pride and joy. I’d had my first Shirley Temple there, with two extra maraschino cherries, sitting on one of the padded vinyl barstools that spun all the way around. My sister and brother and I would crack open peanuts and were actually allowed to throw the shells on the cement floor. Then one day the rules mysteriously changed, and we got a linoleum floor and had to start putting the peanut shells in wooden bar bowls instead.
The next owner could turn this space into an Irish pub, or an old western-style saloon, or even a billiards room. But it was more likely that the basement would be gutted and turned into a media room, complete with theater-style seating and surround sound. If the old wooden bar were lucky enough to survive at all, it would become a movie concession stand.
If Denise’s boyfriend ever got around to actually calling me about that boutique hotel in Atlanta, I might try something elaborate like that, but for this job I was going for a quick fix. I’d turn this basement into an exercise room.
A big part of what home stagers do is create fantasy space. We’d already gotten rid of all the rest of the furniture in the room except for one overstuffed chair. The painters and I placed the elliptical in full view of the television. I threw a white terry cloth robe over the chair and arranged Mrs. Bentley’s exercise videos—mostly unopened, I noticed—on the bookshelf. I spread out an exercise mat on the freshly cleaned carpeting midway between the elliptical and the TV. I crisscrossed two shiny purple weights on top of the mat and placed a royal blue exercise ball beside it.
Next, I took down all the dusty old liquor bottles from the open shelves in the bar and boxed them up. Mrs. Bentley and her husband would have to either rent a storage unit or drink up all that booze fast. I lugged the boxes out to the garage. I rolled
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