Lost in Space

Almost everything about the house seemed perfect. Walking distance to town, close enough to the high school in our old town so my daughter doesn't need to adjust her alarm clock but far enough away to at least give me the illusion of a fresh start. A third bedroom in case an adult child stops by. A fenced in yard for the blind dog. A brand new refrigerator, updated bathrooms, polished wood floors.

There was one major drawback: no storage space. None to speak of anyway. Every inch of the place was designed for living in the present, with just enough square footage devoted to closets that would keep us well stocked with necessary food and clothing. There was no basement crawl space where I could put the excess furniture and boxes containing who knows what, stuff that has travelled with me from home to home, some of it more than once. There were no extra nooks or crannies where I could hang unworn clothing that I have promised myself I would wear one day, where I could stow folded sweaters that I might one day unfold. One day, maybe, when hell freezes over.

It was love at first sight, except for the tiny problem of squeezing a five bedroom house filled with enough crap in the basement to fill up another handful of rooms into a wildly efficient vertical apartment. Really big square peg, really small square hole. Spatial reasoning isn't my thing, but I felt fairly confident this was not going to be an easy fit.

The rent was just a smidge on the wrong side of my upper limit, but the owner admitted she would rather negotiate a bit with a person she liked than grab the full amount from someone who didn't strike her as an ideal tenant. I could tell she liked me. We bonded over lots of topics -- kids, colleges, New York, favorite restaurants. By the time my older daughter stopped by with her posse to offer up a second (and third, and fourth) opinion, I knew I was golden. We had our cell phones out, and we were showing each other pictures of our dogs. I could almost hear the reverse cha-ching of her mental register knocking off a few bucks.

I couldn't sleep that night, so I counted, um, rooms. And square feet. I thought about what I could take with me and what I would have to leave behind. It occurred to me I could take just about everything I need, and what I could not take was the stuff that has been languishing so long in the far reaches of my basement and closets I can barely see it under the dust. And even if hell does freeze over, I probably won't have much use for sweaters that have been folded so long the creases would defy even the most heavy duty steamer.

Not a drawback at all, the lack of storage space. Come to think of it, it's one of the most attractive features, and I should probably pay a premium for it. But I won't. Not after we've shared pictures of our dogs.