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…
Tiny Cat Pants 
did I mention that the woman who came to let you in the house was afraid to get out of her car?
I don’t want to try to talk you into buying a house you’ll regret. But I have to point out that what you’ve just described usually means that the house-letter-inner is white and that there are black people on the block. The house two doors from mine got sold last summer, and the agent was afraid to get out of her car. They were having an open house so we went over to see the rehab job, and this white woman kept asking white us “but do you really feel safe here?” We just didn’t know what to make of it. B, you’ve been to my house, you’ve seen my block. The only way someone could feel unsafe is if that someone thinks a racially integrated neighborhood is scary. Factor stuff like that into the experience you describe.
Oh, I thought the lady in question was afraid of B. and quite possibly the boob freckle.
Well, that has been my strategy for determining the status of a neighborhood. I take off my shirt and bra and walk around the outside of the house, checking on windows and gutters and yard and such and if no one bothers to call the cops, because a half naked woman is the least of their problems, I know the neighborhood is unsafe.
That’s a good strategy. If they don’t react, bad sign. If they all snap pictures to sell to the papers, entrepreneurial neighborhood on its way up. If the people next next door step out and try to persuade you to get dressed, strong neighborhood feel. If the people next door step out and tell you you’re going to hell and they’re gonna call the cops, too uptight. Lots of possibilities for information there.
Assuming, of course, that you don’t knock yourself unconscious the first time you have to step up on something….
Assuming, of course, that you don’t knock yourself unconscious the first time you have to step up on something….