THE HOSTING HANDICAP

Beijing had seven years to prepare to host the Winter Olympics. I’ve got ten days. I may only have one venue to ready and I don’t have to mess with patents for fake snow, but my mission is still daunting. 

 

Living alone, it’s easy for me to ignore my interior surroundings. I know my place could use some tidying up. Maybe more than “some.” A four-person crew could tackle it in an hour. Maybe two. Is it messed up that I put my messiness in context by assuredly telling myself they’d turn me down for an episode of “Hoarders”? That’s the standard. 

 

Over the past week, I’ve started eyeing clutter. 

 

Why do I have so many magazines scattered across my coffee table? Why is “The Summer Issue” of VegNews in prominent view? (It’s from 2020.) There was probably a recipe or two I romanticized about making one day. Some perfectly plated seaweed salad perhaps, with ingredients I’d have to have flown in from the tropics. It would surely make a memorable Instagrammable shot, garnering likes from at least a third of my forty-four followers. 

 

What should I do with the potted succulent on the windowsill? It’s been dying a slow death ever since I brought it home from IGA three months ago. It will not rebound. Three-fifths of it has fallen off, brown and crispy. This will be the third case of plant slaughter in the same site. Clearly, it’s the pot’s fault. 

 

I should regain control of my closet. Somewhere in the nether regions is a stylish raincoat I adore. It would be so nice to head out wearing it during Vancouver’s prolonged rainy season instead of toting my broken umbrella that doesn’t fully open. (It makes my succulent look healthy.) 

 

I’m starting to see places that need a good cleaning, too. Please note that I’m not totally gross. I think my neighbors may want to wring my neck over my obsessive use of my Dirt Devil mini vacuum. Kitchen surfaces are regularly wiped down, partly because I’m highly prone to epic spillage every time I prep a meal. (I have a tricky can opener.) Still, I realized yesterday that I’ve neglected the bathroom mirror. In my defense, I avoid looking at it. I’m a speed groomer. I know the bags under my eyes are still there. All day, every day. Why would I punish myself with a futile stare-down? I could put styling gel in my hair while blindfolded. What I noticed last night was that the mirror is pockmarked with splatterings. Water perhaps but likely numerous flossing projectiles, too. Damn, those bits have an impressive flying range! My dentist doubts me every time I say I floss. Before I wipe down the surface, I’m taking pics. Proof, Dr. Nagsalot! Just give me my sucker, my new toothbrush and let me go.

 

There are more neglected areas, but I sense I’ve already passed the point of Too Much Information. Are you still there, Dear Reader?

 

This sudden scrutiny regarding my surroundings arises from the possibility I may have a guest. COVID has been a handy excuse for keeping people at bay. My friend Katrina pointed out this week that she’s never seen my place which I moved into a week after the first lockdown. It’s been public patios and walks along the seawall for the past two years. I reminded her how committed I am to being a responsible citizen living in the pandemic era. (We can call it an era now, can’t we?) 

 

It's on account of Evan that I’m suddenly faced with the reality check that my abode is abominable. After an epic first date, things continue to progress. I’m doing what most of us do in the early stages, constantly reminding myself that this could be something…or nothing at all. As ready as I am for more, I’m also prepared to be ghosted. Should something like the latter occur in the coming weeks, watch for a blog post in which I chronicle with conviction all the reasons Evan was so clearly and comprehensively wrong for me. A flake! A scoundrel! Scum!

 

Please, let him not be scum.

 

It’s hope that prompts me to think I have a smackdown spring cleaning looming. Dust bunnies, beware! 

 

But my place requires more than a deep clean. My space needs oomph. There are no oohs or aahs. My décor would best be described as Make Do. So much of what I have I’ve been meaning to replace. I figured I’d do that once I moved to Toronto in 2020 which never happened because of that “era” we were stepping into. Buying more things here in Vancouver would have meant more packing and higher moving costs. I wanted to settle into a place, feel a new vibe and then shop for vibe-appropriate wine glasses. Same for vibe-y pillows, a vibe-y armchair and a vibe-y weeping fig…presumably more durable than sad little succulents. (“Weeping” is in the name so, if things don’t go well, I can say, “Duh…” and leave it at that.) 

 

Should Evan visit, I know I could dash to Bed Bath and Beyond to buy a new shower curtain and a decent duvet cover. I could get some overpriced candles at Granville Island. I could finish off with a daffodil decoy. Never mind three unopened moving boxes that serve as end tables; look at the vase! Not the vase itself which couldn’t be plainer. Just fix your eyes on the daffodils. So yellow! Wowzie yellow, right? A few blooms and a shower curtain don’t constitute more than a slight up-do to Make Do. Katrina would politely nod and say, “Nice place,” both of us knowing she’s lying but letting it go. That’s what friends do.

 

Not so with Evan. He’s both an architect and an interior designer. The whole reason I initially reached out to him online was because his profile oozed style. So above and beyond everyone else. His fashion sense is impeccable. His place is fabulous, a well-curated collection worthy of a magazine spread…and the cover. 

 

During our first FaceTime chat, he immediately cut me off in the middle of some undoubtedly scintillating remark by saying, “What’s going on with that painting?” It’s a lovely original work of art, reminiscent of Canada’s Group of Seven, painted by a local artist. Evan wasn’t knocking it; in fact, he liked it. However, it was hung wrong. 

 

I know this. It’s mounted ridiculously high above the sofa. Normally, I would never hang it like that but there was one nail in the wall when I moved in and that’s what I went with. I was only supposed to be here five months, six tops. None of us thought we were heading into an era. My other prized painting rests on the floor, leaning against the opposite wall. I know that, if I decided to properly mount these items, there would be a lot of trial and error. (If I can’t figure out a can opener, imagine what I do with a hammer and nails.) Part of me never wanted to feel like I was settling in here while another part of me wanted to ensure I got the whole damage deposit back when I moved out. Big holes in walls are glaring once the paintings covering them are removed.

 

The painting over the sofa was enough for Evan to say, “I’ll be staying at a hotel,” should he ever visit me in Vancouver. Was he kidding? Early stages…so much to be unsure of. Worst case scenario, he wasn’t kidding but, presumably, he’d let me stop by. A night or two at a Vancouver hotel would be a treat. Staycations are still a thing in the present era.

 

It’s more than the paintings, of course. My duvet has a hole in it…somewhere. Perhaps several holes. I’m a restless sleeper so my bedroom floor looks like the bottom of a chicken coup every morning, feathers all over the place. (Dirt Devil to the rescue!) Every item in the kitchen is dated (except that dang can opener). Heck, everything everywhere. If my place makes a statement, it’s with the wrong kind of exclamation tacked on. 

 

I know, I know…if Evan’s into me, permanently spotted wine glasses won’t matter. He’s dating me, not my dollar store vase. I’ll still be mortified. Thus far, I seem to have made a great impression almost in spite of myself. I’ve shared all my emotional baggage. Sharing my space seems more daunting.

 

The reality is that Evan’s possible visit only brings to light my own disappointment with my living space. Way back when, in my twenties, I was developing a strong sense of style, bathroom rubber duckie collection notwithstanding. (They’re all gone, along with the thoughtfully placed children’s picture book, Everyone Poops.) In my forties moving into a house of my own, I had beautiful furniture custom-made. I gave it all away when I moved back to Vancouver, none of it matching the scale of a teensy condo. I’ve regressed since then. Make Do is code for dorm-shabby. My place would pass muster if I were eighteen. No one would care about the broken, faded office chair relegated to the balcony. My vodka and gin collection would be enough to dazzle. 

 

Alas, I’m fifty-seven, not eighteen. I have so much growing up to do in the next ten days. I just bought a brand new soap dispenser for the bathroom. I can already feel the wow factor rising.