Houses are curious places; and ours seems to get curiouser and curiouser by the day. That's why my husband, Doug, calls it The Alice-in-Wonderland House.
When we got married, we chose this size house because, between the two of us, we had lots of hobbies, interests, books and family. No way could we fit all that into a saltbox or a rancher. I admit our yard is pretty big, too, but we wanted to get closer to nature without being hit in the head with Frisbees.
A decade ago, when we moved in, we enjoyed raking quadrillions of leaves in autumn and caring for the rolling lawn and abundant shrubbery in summer. We could spend a whole afternoon neatening flower beds — even when it seemed that weeds fell from the sky like rain — without ever having to see a chiropractor.
But at some point (apparently when we weren't paying attention) the house became enchanted, and we feel as if we've fallen down the rabbit hole. Closets shrink like sweaters in the dryer; simple rooms become cavernous, echo-filled, ballroom-sized spaces. We can hardly face the yard. Doug doesn't "mow the lawn" anymore. Now he "works the south 40."
I'm sure we're not the ones changing size, as we've never eaten any peculiar little cakes or drunk any tiny bottles of mystery liquid the entire time we've been here.
It's got to be the house.
Whenever the family comes over during the holidays, the house shrinks to the size of a college dorm room. People, coats, shoes, food, dishes and glasses occupy every square inch, floor to ceiling. The cats huddle in a corner behind the furnace, breathing the last of the oxygen. At our most recent family gathering, my brother-in-law showed up late and had to be shoe-horned into the foyer. It wasn't pretty.
Now that I'm shopping for the holidays, I can't hide gifts in the closets because they've contracted like a black hole left in the wake of an imploding star. Pillows and blankets tumble onto my head and out-of-season clothes and shoes (and banjos, out-dated computer equipment and birthday wrapping paper) prevent me from even glimpsing the floor.
I'm already stuffing boxes and bags under beds, and stashing presents in the trunk of my car.
Sometimes Doug and I talk about downsizing — usually when he's carrying my limp, seemingly lifeless body to bed after I've cleaned the football stadium we call a "master bath."
A smaller house is more practical: We'd save money on utilities and cut down on upkeep. We'd have tidy closets, with breathing room for clothes, and modest, cozy rooms in which to grow old naturally — instead of having the house kill us.
Then we'll attend an open house at some enormous, rambling Victorian mansion for sale and fall in love with it. But only for a few days, until we realize how expensive and how much work it would be.
For now, maybe wearing roller skates to do chores will shrink the house again; and getting some drop-down hangers might make the closets seem larger.
Wait a minute — there's a notice in the paper for an open house at a 5,000-square-foot, 1901 Victorian this weekend. Just imagine the attic space!
Come to think of it, didn't Alice live in a Victorian house?