MY FAMILY and I have been house-sitting lately, displaced while we're having some work done on our own home. Funny thing, living in someone else's space.
I've spent plenty of time in apartments, houses and dorm rooms belonging to others -- but they were always around, too. You can't really make yourself at home, so to speak, when the owner is right there.
``Make yourself at home!'' is one of those phrases like ``How are you?'' that people say but don't really mean -- not in a complete sense. Because no one in their right mind would issue that kind of invitation.
I can just see it: ``Make myself at home? Oh, OK. I'll graze through your refrigerator and help myself to the last of the Ben & Jerry's you've got stashed in the back of the freezer. Then I'll leave the empty container to leak all over the counter -- don't worry, I'll get it in the morning. Next, I'll monopolize the bathroom for 40 minutes, taking the newspaper with me (of course you haven't read it yet). Finally, I'll spend the rest of the evening giving your TV remote a good workout.''
Make yourself at home? I think not. Most hosts prefer that their visitors act like real guests, with manners straight from Emily Post.
But when you're house sitting, you do get to make yourself comfortable -- at least, as much as is possible in an environment not of your own design. And it's eerily fun to insert yourself into another world. It's like waking up in an episode of ``The Twilight Zone.'' It appeals to the voyeur in all of us, and it's hard to resist some of the more base temptations.
For instance, you can eat their food (mark me down as guilty). Listen to their phone messages (yup). Read their books (guilty again). Try on their clothes (not guilty). Check out the hard drive of their computer (no way). Read their mail (nope).
It was fun, at least for a week, to take a turn in someone else's life. I figured out what I like about my own life (the color, the openness, the noises) and what I might want to adjust (getting more organized, keeping the dining room table clear enough for actual dining).
Even though we were invited to invade this world -- I had its keys jangling in my pocket -- I still felt a measure of discomfort tinged with excitement as I leafed through the piles of books on the bedside table. It was like going through my mom's purse as I did when I was little -- not looking for anything specific, not taking anything away, but searching all the same for some secret that had to be hidden there.
Now I know intellectually that no one has any more of the secrets to life than I do myself. I know that usually an old Kleenex is just that -- detritus of a cold, a sad movie, a bout with allergies. But from my explorations, I also know that sometimes it's something more: the last memento of a broken romance, a carefully wrapped lock of baby's hair, or something equally precious. You never know until you look.
I can't help but wonder what people would think of my own way of living. Would they figure out that my bookshelves are organized not by topic but by how often I refer to the volumes? Would they be amused by the CD collection that places Frank Sinatra in the middle of Echo & the Bunnymen, The Eagles and ``The Little Mermaid'' soundtrack? Do I live like someone who's got the answers, who's in control, who's loving life?
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My guess is that, just like I did, the unknown house-sitter would admire certain aspects of my lifestyle (My vast collection of shoes? The view out our dining room window?) and raise their eyebrows at others. But most of all, they would probably realize there's no place like home.
(Published 5/6/99, San Jose Mercury News)
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