On Home, Space, and Personal Challenges.
My husband and I bought our first home about a year and a half ago, after sharing five apartments, and a dorm room with bunkbeds with his best friend in university due to a dud roommate.
Together, we’ve survived sweltering summers without air conditioning, frigid winters without adequate heating (you haven’t lived until you’ve been terrifyingly close to burning down a Japanese apartment building via your tatami mats and a space heater), we’ve survived hurricanes, snowstorms, and ice storms (though by survive, I mean drove to Florida just before, sat in the sun on the beach, and returned just after). Our house survived it, save for a few sad houseplants.
We live well together.
Rationally, we probably shouldn’t.
His idea of a perfect house would be minimalism at its best. Everything would be multifunctional, devoid of colour, and stark. I…like stuff. There’s this William Morris quote that’s something about only keeping things in your house that you believe to be useful or beautiful, and I follow it to a tee, though I don’t really apply it the way it was intended because I think lots of things are beautiful.
He’s not sentimental, the kind that reads Christmas cards and is content to throw them away immediately afterward. I love nothing more than looking at things and remembering a time, place or person. When I travel, I usually bring things back. Usually a piece of pottery or a print. Sometimes both. I have an amazing assortment of things that I’ve collected and that have been gifted to me that (I think) all fit together and make my home a comfortable, warm place.
We compromise. I turn my head when he throws out the Christmas cards, and he builds me attractive shelving for my worldly possessions so they have a place.
Right now, I’m looking at a life-sized carved wooden plover that my grandmother bought somewhere because she thought it was beautiful, next to a jar of sea glass gathered by my dad. When I brush my teeth, I’ll see a set of water colour postcards I salvaged from a heap of stuff someone who left Japan before I did left behind. When I crawl into bed, I’ll see the antique trick dog bank that my mother sent along, after I asked for it.There’s a lot of stuff. It’s all got a story. I don’t keep things I don’t love.
When we started looking for a house, about two years ago now, we knew two things: first, that we were going to pay a lot for a little, and secondly, that even if it was a little, it would still be much, much better than where we were living at that time, sandwiched between a Taiwanese hoarder (though in her defense she was lovely), and a crack-addicted father and son (who were not so lovely). House hunting was both wonderful and horrible, as there’s nothing quite so enjoyable as being about to look inside the places people live (except in the case of the flop house on Cosburn), and nothing as depressing as becoming invested in a home and having it snatched away in a late-into-the-night bidding war. I don’t know how many houses we looked at, but it was probably upwards of 60.
I remember first coming to see our current house with our agent and instantly feeling good here. There were places I didn’t feel good (I don’t know who bought the house on Sammon with the ghost, but I’m glad it wasn’t me), but this one wasn’t one of them.
A family lived here. It was clear that their agent had given them some very specific advice on staging, and we were both a bit thrown off by the way things were arranged and where they were possibly hiding a second teenage daughter in a two bedroom house, but the space was open, in relatively good repair, and there was potential. It wasn’t a gut job, it was move-in ready, and within our price range. It had a yard.
A yard.
There were three possible contenders for our house that week. All in all, I’m happy with the way the chips fell, despite spending the next six months dealing with the asshole contractor that was renovating (and ruining) the other side of the semi, and subsequently living next to a fighty couple that we have nothing in common with when the renovation was finished (seriously, who smokes outside in this weather?). Even living across the street from a very racist old man affectionately (or not) called Poppa John hasn’t been so bad when contrasted with our past living conditions.
I love my house. I hate the kitchen, and the bathroom, and I wish we had a third bedroom, and that the basement ceiling was higher, but I love my house. I love it because it’s mine (in another 20 years), and because it has almost endless potential, limited only by the confines of our lot, and my imagination (and budget, to some degree).
We’ve got time though. And we both like a challenge.
This past fall, finally recovered financially from our trip to Italy, and a gluttonous summer, decided to do a month-long challenge, in the name of saving some money and cutting our (read: my) caloric intake.
We didn’t eat out for the entire month of September. Now, to some of you, you might think this isn’t a big thing. It probably shouldn’t be a big thing. Here’s the thing though. We live in a city with a zillion restaurants. Eating out is a pretty key way to socialize with people in a time effective way, since you can take care of two needs at once.
It’s also hella expensive. I don’t track my eating out budget, but Matt does, and whenever he tells me what he’s spent (since he is a gentleman, and earns more than I do) in a month, I get a little cringy (and imagine a new bathroom vanity).
So we did the month, only breaking to eat out for unavoidable work functions. It went well. We both learned to cook some new things, combined with running I lost a bit of weight, and both of our bank accounts thanked us heartily. We went back to eating out in October, but were and continue to be a bit more mindful of how often. In November, we decided to try a new challenge, and went dry for the month. That went well too, as we both knew we had a lot of Christmas parties in December and we certainly weren’t going to do it then. We succeeded at that one too.
For January, we’ve implemented a new challenge, but it’s a bit more involved and is a little harder than waving off a glass of wine now and then. I’m addicted to Apartment Therapy. If you’re unaware of Apartment Therapy, I advise you to block off some time and start with the house tours. It’s an amazing site full of great projects, inspiration, and much more, and, if you’re like me, and like looking inside other people’s spaces, it’s, bar none, the best place to do it.
Every January, Apartment Therapy runs something called The January Cure, which is a challenge aimed at starting the new year in a good state of mind when it comes to your home. There are daily challenges, and by signing up via email, you get a nice note each morning telling you what your challenge for the day, or weekend is (there’s a calender too, if you like spoilers). Last weekend, we spent around 5 hours vacuuming, sweeping, and mopping, which couldn’t be done until everything was put away and dusted and moved around. Another part of the challenge was also to buy flowers. I’m also looking at a lovely new orchid, just below the wooden plover.
I started this week feeling really good though. There’s something great about coming back to a space that you feel comfortable in, and proud of. My peel and stick kitchen floor tiles have never looked better (we’re replacing them, promise). I’m a homebody (secretive or not), and it’s important that my home feels safe and secure. I spend a lot of time here. I dream here, I write here, my most important relationship plays out here.
There’s no way making this a better place to be could ever be a bad thing.
The challenges aren’t all physical. Yesterday, we contemplated what our dream kitchen would look like from a vantage point we wouldn’t usually take. Today, we set up a physical “outbox”, where we can stick the things we aren’t sure about until we are sure about them, one way or another. It feels good, to not be attached to the things that aren’t worth attaching yourself to. In it? Some little wooden kitchen boxes that I’d bought at The Bay for the sake of buying a few years ago.
I won’t miss them.
When I imagine my home in the future, it’ll be well-curated, and a reflection of us. Things will come and go. I’ll get wiser with my buying decisions. The next set of pots and pans I buy will hopefully be our last. We’ll pay more for better things and take the time to save for them. Things I love, that are also functional.
We’ll continue to compromise and ask each other the hard questions, about wants and needs, and work hard to clean the floors more regularly.
