The Mister and I have been house hunting off-and-on for the last year or so. We like where we are and are in no hurry to move, but we're starting to outgrow our house. I don't know how that happened with only two people, so I think I'll blame it on the cats. Before I got that plush catnip mouse toy we were fine. After? Oh my god we can hardly move up in here!
We are not overly picky when it comes to real estate. We don't care about a lot of things that other people do, but we have a couple things that we're quite firm about: 1) The house needs to be close to downtown. We are not suburban people. I'll put up with the occasional drive-by if it means I'm within walking distance to the cigarette store. B) The house needs to be older. Pre-1950, ideally. McMansions make us want to punch someone in the face and then vomit.
Throughout the course of this house hunting we've attended a large number of open houses. Most of the time we'll walk out, all shrugging and "Meh, didn't do anything for me." But sometimes we'll encounter something that tests our ability to keep a straight face while in polite company. There was one house we saw that was, to the best I could tell, quite lovely. It was inhabited by two gay men, which normally equals Jackpot. But in this particular case the word "flamboyant" didn't come close to describing these two gentlemen. There was a baby grand piano in the living room (which wasn't anywhere close to being big enough to accommodate it) flanked by flickering electric candelabras. The homeowners had some very nice furniture, but the whole house had that whole garish vibe to it, like it was designed to be a showcase for Pottery Barn's new Liberace line. We tried hard to look past the numerous decorative feathers, Rodgers and Hammerstein posters, and 10+ Glamorshots prominently displayed all over the house, but there was so much stuff in there it was virtually impossible to see the house itself. Also, who in the hell hangs multiple pictures of themselves all over their house? These weren't pictures of the guy in interesting places or with his partner or pet or family or anything like that. It was dude in a cardigan prissing for the camera. And they were all over the freaking house. I don't know about anyone else, but seeing a collage of my airbrushed photos is about the last thing I want to lay my eyes on as I scramble to TinkleTown.
Anyway, The Mister and I looked around, tried in vain to visualize the house without all the headshots and feathers and electric candelabras, and then left. It really did seem like a nice house, but being inside it was such sensory overload that leaving it felt like escaping from a crowded elevator filled with people wearing way too much cheap cologne. As we were walking out to the car my husband said, "I've been in gayer houses, but not in about 30 years. Oh my god." Indeed. Word to anybody who is trying to sell a house: Remove all your Glamorshots.
So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah... house shopping! I've come to learn that I lose all common sense when presented with certain amenities, namely A) wood-burning fireplaces and/or 2) granite kitchen countertops. I'm not sure why I have such a burning desire (Ha! See what I did there?) for a fireplace, but I seem to lose all control when I see a house with one. Gas fireplaces hold no appeal for me, because while I appreciate their convenience and totally understand why people find them to be desirable, to my mind they are little more than oversized Bic lighters. To add to the mystery, I've had wood-burning fireplaces before, and I've used them precisely zero times. But for some reason I am under the ridiculous impression that I live inside a Currier and Ives print and will spend countless hours in front of a crackling fire daintily sipping mulled cider while horse drawn sleighs travel down the street. And the granite counters? No idea where that obsession comes from, but they totally make me hot.
House shopping with me is undoubtedly quite a nightmare, because every time my husband voices a completely reasonable concern I get tunnel-visioned and start shrieking like a harpy about fireplaces or counters.
"I don't know about this house. The layout is kind of strange, and the kitchen is pretty small."
"But did you see the fireplace?"
"Yeah, but did you see the kitchen?"
"Yes I did! It had gorgeous counters! Granite!"
"I guess, but it was tiny. And the bedrooms are pretty small. The bathrooms need updating. The roof looks pretty old, and I think there might be some structural problems. The floor is uneven and the electrical wiring looks pretty suspect. The plumbing looks bad and I think there might be termites. Lots of repairs, I think."
"Oh, whatever. Did you see the fireplace?!?!?!"
We are not overly picky when it comes to real estate. We don't care about a lot of things that other people do, but we have a couple things that we're quite firm about: 1) The house needs to be close to downtown. We are not suburban people. I'll put up with the occasional drive-by if it means I'm within walking distance to the cigarette store. B) The house needs to be older. Pre-1950, ideally. McMansions make us want to punch someone in the face and then vomit.
Throughout the course of this house hunting we've attended a large number of open houses. Most of the time we'll walk out, all shrugging and "Meh, didn't do anything for me." But sometimes we'll encounter something that tests our ability to keep a straight face while in polite company. There was one house we saw that was, to the best I could tell, quite lovely. It was inhabited by two gay men, which normally equals Jackpot. But in this particular case the word "flamboyant" didn't come close to describing these two gentlemen. There was a baby grand piano in the living room (which wasn't anywhere close to being big enough to accommodate it) flanked by flickering electric candelabras. The homeowners had some very nice furniture, but the whole house had that whole garish vibe to it, like it was designed to be a showcase for Pottery Barn's new Liberace line. We tried hard to look past the numerous decorative feathers, Rodgers and Hammerstein posters, and 10+ Glamorshots prominently displayed all over the house, but there was so much stuff in there it was virtually impossible to see the house itself. Also, who in the hell hangs multiple pictures of themselves all over their house? These weren't pictures of the guy in interesting places or with his partner or pet or family or anything like that. It was dude in a cardigan prissing for the camera. And they were all over the freaking house. I don't know about anyone else, but seeing a collage of my airbrushed photos is about the last thing I want to lay my eyes on as I scramble to TinkleTown.
Anyway, The Mister and I looked around, tried in vain to visualize the house without all the headshots and feathers and electric candelabras, and then left. It really did seem like a nice house, but being inside it was such sensory overload that leaving it felt like escaping from a crowded elevator filled with people wearing way too much cheap cologne. As we were walking out to the car my husband said, "I've been in gayer houses, but not in about 30 years. Oh my god." Indeed. Word to anybody who is trying to sell a house: Remove all your Glamorshots.
So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah... house shopping! I've come to learn that I lose all common sense when presented with certain amenities, namely A) wood-burning fireplaces and/or 2) granite kitchen countertops. I'm not sure why I have such a burning desire (Ha! See what I did there?) for a fireplace, but I seem to lose all control when I see a house with one. Gas fireplaces hold no appeal for me, because while I appreciate their convenience and totally understand why people find them to be desirable, to my mind they are little more than oversized Bic lighters. To add to the mystery, I've had wood-burning fireplaces before, and I've used them precisely zero times. But for some reason I am under the ridiculous impression that I live inside a Currier and Ives print and will spend countless hours in front of a crackling fire daintily sipping mulled cider while horse drawn sleighs travel down the street. And the granite counters? No idea where that obsession comes from, but they totally make me hot.
House shopping with me is undoubtedly quite a nightmare, because every time my husband voices a completely reasonable concern I get tunnel-visioned and start shrieking like a harpy about fireplaces or counters.
"I don't know about this house. The layout is kind of strange, and the kitchen is pretty small."
"But did you see the fireplace?"
"Yeah, but did you see the kitchen?"
"Yes I did! It had gorgeous counters! Granite!"
"I guess, but it was tiny. And the bedrooms are pretty small. The bathrooms need updating. The roof looks pretty old, and I think there might be some structural problems. The floor is uneven and the electrical wiring looks pretty suspect. The plumbing looks bad and I think there might be termites. Lots of repairs, I think."
"Oh, whatever. Did you see the fireplace?!?!?!"
7 Comments:
You probably already know that I'm a Realtor, but I promise I'm not writing to "stalk" you as realtors are wont to do. I just want to say that you should be very very picky about the house you buy. It is a buyers' market now and though time is of the essence, remember that if the perfect home isn't on the market right now, it might be tomorrow. Go to realtracs.com to search if you haven't already. Good luck and let me know if you need any help. There will be no stalking, though, I promise!
Those dudes need to watch some episodes of "Sell this House"... I just watch it because Tammy Mename is hot. A ding-bat, but hot.
Kathy T.,
Now that you mention it, I guess on some level I did know that you are a Realtor. It never really registered with me though, probably because I am not very smart.
Anyway, fortunately for me I married a very level-headed man. I get easily distracted by bells and whistles. It's kind of like dangling a set of keys in front of a toddler. I'll get fixated on the shininess and neglect the big picture. There will probably be some drool in there, too.
But at the rate we're going we'll be still be looking for a house next year at this time. I don't know that the two of us will ever be satisfied. I will most definitely give you a shout if we decide to go the real estate broker route (which we haven't done at this point because I am CHEAP). And you're right -- some of the Realtors we've encountered have been scary aggressive. I understand that it's a competitive business and all, but let GO of my arm already.
Tyge,
Dude, chick's name is TANYA MEMME. Quit trying to turn her into a Polynesian!
I do think Tanya's hotness has something to do with why The Mister will watch Sell This House without complaint, though. What a perv.
But if you've got electric candelabras and multiple Glamorshots of yourself all over your house then the two of us need to have a long chat, because you obviously misled me and lived a lie for a very long time.
You never fail to make me laugh! I too fall for sparkly pretties with seeing the big picture. The German has had to lead me out of many places due to that little fact…
BTW, I tagged you…. Come see me.
More free advice... when you buy, you don't generally pay a dime to your Realtor. There are at least two very popular companies that DO charge you, though, in this area. I'm sure there's a song and dance about why they do it (and it would be tempting to get back some of the gas money I've guzzled), but be wary.
My ex-wife worked at the first Glamour Shots as a make-up artist. Therefore, there is a Glamour Shot of me in my mother's house. She refuses to take it down, despite my pleading. I am grasping my upturned collar and rocking the 80s mullet.
My house is great. I am at work downtown in 10 minutes. It is 50 years old. I have a gas fireplace (sorry).
I have a pool. The pool house has cable and a full bath. I have a seperate workshop with hardwood floor and a half bath. I'm not that handy, so it is now a poker house. My house kicks ass.
I don't want to sell it, but I might have to. Email me at jim at fb-i dot com if you want to hear about it.
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