Trading Spaces: The Freeloading Matriarch Edition
It's time to shake things up, Grandma. I'll take good care of the place while you're gone.
It was Christmas Eve, and the rest of my family was getting ready for bed. I realized I had a deadline for a writing project the next morning, so I stole away to the mother-in-law suite, which is currently occupied by my widowed grandmother. I posted up in Grandma’s favorite chair and left the lights off so as not to disturb her while she slept in the neighboring bedroom. After working for about ten minutes, I realized that the harsh glow of my computer screen wasn’t going to create a sustainable work environment over the course of the next hour. So I turned on the lamp next to me, and the entire suite was illuminated before my eyes. Looking back, I almost wish I had never turned that lamp on. But it was too late, and I’d seen too much.
In the two years that my parents had lived in the new house, not once had I ever stepped foot in the mother-in-law suite. I’d only visited their new digs a few times, and even as my siblings and I routinely piled into two beds and an air mattress in the bedroom on the opposite end of the hall during weekend visits, one thing was always clear: the remaining rooms on this side of the house were Grandma’s territory. Not that she was territorial about them, but this was her world up here, and we respected that. She came down for meals three times a day, and during the holidays, she might even watch It’s A Wonderful Life with the rest of the family. But whether it was to socialize with her grandkids for a few moments, scarf down a plate of my mom’s lasagna or report the highlights from the latest Tucker Carlson segment, you knew she wasn’t going to spend more than 15 minutes making her rounds before retiring to her safe haven. Why would she? Everything she needed was in that suite. And that’s what I realized on Christmas Eve.
As I examined this luxurious space for the first time, all of those grandiose dreams that inspired me to move to New York City 18 months ago seemed…a little abstract. Sure, they were worthy ambitions. But in that moment, I found myself unable to take hold of them in any meaningful way. What I was able take hold of was the sleek stainless steel handle of the GE Profile Series French-Door Refrigerator on the other side of the room, complete with TwinChill evaporators, Energy Star certification and, of course, Wifi. Did I say, “handle?” I meant “handles.” Two of them. French-Door. That means two doors. The kind you can swing open in search of leftovers like some sort of suburban prince, whose daily life consists mostly of snacking on gourmet nachos he didn’t make while he lives in the king and queen’s castle rent-free. A lot of people would consider that lifestyle an embarrassment to the royal family, but I disagree. I’d consider it a great honor, a role I feel I could really grow into and thrive in. And the only reason I’m not living that dream right now is because the queen from two generations ago is somehow still hanging around.
Look, lingerers are the last people I like to cut deals with. But after scanning the suite and taking into account all of the amenities—the flatscreen TV, ample counter-space, large windows allowing for a wealth of natural light—that would be at my disposal should I find a way to oust this freeloading matriarch from her cozy abode, I had to ask myself: how badly do I want this? And the answer was clear. All I really wanted for Christmas was this mother-in-law suite, and the only person standing in the way was, of course, the mother-in-law. Which begs the question: When exactly was she planning on moving on with her life? I mean, she’s been here for almost three years. I love you, Grandma, but it’s time to get off your ass and find a hustle. You’re always talking about how great a dancer you were back in the day, touring across the country and whatnot. Well, let’s see what you’ve got left in the tank! I think I speak for the whole family when I say we’d love to see you dance those legs right out the door for another world tour. Ever heard of New York City? It’s the dance capital of the world, baby, and I’ve got a beautiful Manhattan apartment lined up for you whenever you’re ready to make the move.
Well, “beautiful” might be a strong word. Amenities-wise, it’ll be a bit of a downgrade. You can say goodbye to stainless steel and Wifi-enabled appliances. Hope you’re cool with a mini-fridge. Which, by the way, there’s this little rubber thing on the bottom of the door that keeps falling out of place, and you’ll need to bend over and push it back in every time you open the refrigerator door. If you forget to do this, plan on throwing out all your food the next morning. Also, I assume you’re willing to go ahead and swap rooms this summer? If so, be ready to crank that portable AC unit all the way up. Honestly, you should probably buy another unit once you arrive, just to be safe. I can’t have you dying of heat exhaustion and making me look bad. Oh, and don’t bother trying to shut the living room window. That’s not really one of its features. If it gets a little chilly next winter, and you find yourself shivering uncontrollably in your sleep, put on a sweater! Your generation invented that phrase, right?
I think this is going to be good for you, Grandma. And don’t worry, I’ll take good care of the suite while you’re gone. Just remember that getting your dance career back on track is going to take some time. I’d give it at least 3-5 years in the city before you even think about moving back in with my parents. Otherwise, I mean, what’s the point? Sure, I myself haven’t even made it two years in New York. But now that I’ve finally gotten a good look at where you’ve been hunkering down lately, I gotta say, I love what you’ve done with the place. So much so that I feel like it would do us both some good to switch things up for awhile. A fresh start, you know? I’m confident you’ve got what it takes to make it in the big city post-pandemic. If you want any tips, you know where to find me. In your favorite chair, just chillin’. Remember: 3-5 years. Minimum.