90 minutes from Seattle
Sustainable living at its most authentic!
Starting Bid: $25,000
Donated by Northwest Community Housing Initiative
I stare at the grainy photo of what generously could be called a structure. It’s basically a wooden box with windows, sitting in a clearing surrounded by impossibly tall trees. There’s something weirdly compelling about it—like if a Pinterest board and a tetanus risk had a baby.
“Sustainable living at its most authentic,” I read aloud, the irony not lost on me after this morning’s presentation. I think of the bar poster:TINY HOUSE, HUGE FEELINGS.
I drain my champagne and signal for another. The ballroom feels suddenly airless, crowded with people whose entire careers revolve around making fake things seem real.
Like mine.
Like me.
Tyler’s Instagram caption floats back into my head:Finally found my forever home.
The tiny house in the photo doesn’t look like anyone’sforeveranything. It looks like a project. A challenge. Something real that can’t be fixed with the right filter or caption.
The auction begins with a “luxury glamping experience” that sells for an obscene amount to a tech CEO who probably thinks camping means no room service. I half-listen while scrollingthrough my phone, where Tyler’s engagement post has now reached 1,057 likes.
I put my phone away and reach for my third champagne. By the time they get to Lot #42, I’m pleasantly fuzzy around the edges—that particular kind of drunk where terrible ideas feel like destiny calling.
“Next up, ladies and gentlemen, Lot #42, a charming tiny house in Maple Glen, Washington. Includes a complete renovation package from local craftsmen. Starting bid is twenty-five thousand dollars. Do I hear twenty-five?”
I look down at the catalog photo again. Something about that little wooden box in the woods feels like a dare.
“Twenty-five thousand, thank you, madam,” the auctioneer says—and I realize with horror that my hand is in the air.
When did I do that?
It was like watching someone else raise my hand, except that someone is definitely me, and now everyone is looking.
“Do I hear thirty thousand? Thirty thousand from the gentleman on the phone.”
Wait,what?Someone else wants this glorified shed?
“Thirty-five?” The auctioneer looks at me expectantly.
Before I can process what I’m doing, my auction paddle is in the air again.Stop it, hand.We don’t even know where Maple Glen is.
“Thirty-five from the lady in the sequin jacket. Forty from our phone bidder.”
I glance down at my jacket—a ridiculous silver thing I bought for networking events because Diana once said I needed more“presence.”The champagne bubbles tickle my nose, and suddenly I’m furious that some faceless person on the phone thinks they can outbid me. Forwhat?A tiny box in the woods I didn’t even want five minutes ago?
“Forty-five,” I hear myself say, paddle raised high.
“Fifty,” counters Phone Person immediately.
The room has gone quiet, attention shiftingbetween me and the auctioneer’s assistant who’s handling the phone bidder. I should stop. This is insane. I live in LA. I work in PR. I don’t even own a hammer.
