"I don't have a grown up house," my friend said immediately.
I don't have a lot of close friends, but this is why I love the ones I have. I didn't have to explain what I meant by "grown up house."
B's house is beautiful. It is immaculate, despite her rambunctious dog. She has nice furniture that looks like it was chosen carefully. Spaces are clear of random knicknacks. Her guest rooms are actually guest rooms, with beds and chairs in them.
My house is cheerfully described as a "bungalow" on real estate sites. It's over a thousand feet smaller than hers. Unless managed, the surrounding forest is always threatening to take over. My furniture is mismatched, my art is eclectic, and my "guest room" has litter boxes and an exercise bike in it.
It is cute rather than beautiful, a hippie sort of place. It'll never win design awards or sell for a fortune, but it is cozy. I look forward to coming home to it when I'm away on a fire assignment. The truth is, I like the grown up houses and I'm sometimes envious of people who have them, but I'm not really a grown up house kind of person. I'm happy in my little space.