Oh, my beautiful earthlings, yesterday I walked through a house I could love. Big front porch, two decorative fireplaces, one of which had that old timey mantle with the mirror. A dining room, a kitchen with a breakfast nook, a back porch, a basement, an upstairs that could be turned over to the Butcher. Hardwood floors. Great big rooms.
I could hardly think rationally about it.
Usually, it’s enough in those situations to channel my inner Mack–there’s only one bathroom, the neighborhood is shitty, those hardwood floors are a mess, there’s no dishwasher, it’s not really a breakfast nook if the washer and dryer are sitting there, is that a yard or a home for very ugly weeds, how are you going to afford to replace all those windows, did I mention that the woman who came to let you in the house was afraid to get out of her car?, how are you going to afford a kitchen remodel?–and so on.
But, my friends, so strong was my love for this house, how right it felt to be walking through the rooms, the convoluted excuses I was making for why we could move in even without any visible means of fixing the millions of things that were wrong with it that I had to channel my inner Sarcastro. I had to imagine him walking through the house, laughing loudly as he noticed all the things that need fixing. That was the only way I could walk out of the house knowing I did the right thing by not making an offer.
And, I blame the hours I’ve spent in front of HGTV for this nonsense, where every show is about some intrepid home owner who buys a house with problems and magically transforms it into something wonderful. It’s like the Beauty and the Beast myth for houses. You see a monster and your love transforms it.
It’s sometimes hard for me to turn that off when I’m walking through a house, the script that says “Here’s what we could do to fix this.” I’m not Bob Villa and I don’t have a team of carpenters.
But if I did…