I think I’m buying a house. An actual, particular, non-hypothetical house.
Like, I mean, I haven’t said the words out loud to the realtor yet, but um…
I’ve been looking, you may recall, since the end of June. I fell in love with one, but we had to break up because of an unforeseen circumstance. But I had my eye on a couple others. Highly real estate-savvy parents came on Thursday. Houses were seen. I’d already seen two of the four and really only wanted the second look at one of them so I could compare it to the other. It has people living in it; the one I liked better did not. I needed to see furniture to appreciate the use of space. Eff the owners who think their house is worth what they want, on top of the taxes that are too high. I’m only borrowing your house for the measurements, bitches. Cute dog, though.
Anyway. Two previously-viewed houses and two first-time showings, one of which was brand-spankin’-new construction, but it was above my budget. Hottie McHousehunter knew it, and he knows I’ve threatened to fire him if he shows me houses above my budget, but he wanted me to see some new construction. Sadly, this new construction is a planned community on the “other” side of a dodgy neighborhood that won’t change until every last person dies, and I think it’s going to be sad and lonely over there (although the Target that’s going in will be fabulous). Plus, of course, everything you might possibly like in a house is an upgrade. Cha-ching. No way Hottay.
I did like another house we saw – lots of old character and charm, but in great condition, with original hardwood floors (as in 1910 original) and exposed ceiling beams in the living room. It was bigger, too. But so were the financials. And it had a moisture problem in the unfinished basement like John Goodman has a weight problem, and it’s a foreclosure. I’m brave, but I’m not that brave.
Of course, my mother liked that block better because it appeared better-kept. She’s generally worried that I’ll be murdered in my bed, but fortunately we established later that she’d probably be worried even if I lived in the Vatican. My father, on the other hand, seems to figure he’ll just kill any m—–f—er who looks at me twice.
(Dear future husband: I’m so, so sorry. Let me explain...)
Speaking of (almost entirely fictional) future husbands… Hottie McHousehunter was good enough to ride with my parents and me in my mom’s CR-V for this hunt. I drove, Dad rode shotgun, Mom was behind him, which put HMcH behind me and next to my mother. There was lots of chatting during our appointed rounds, and of course, Dad and Hottie made friends while we toured. (It started out talking about housing, but I’m pretty sure it moved on to things like football and beer and other completely non-related things by the time we were in the last house. It was almost like the realtor stopped realtying and just developed a relationship with my dad instead. My dad makes friends everywhere he goes. He’s a big guy – not John Goodman big, but tall and solid – and he’s friendly by nature. And also to keep people from being terrified of him.)
When it came time to part ways with Hottie, the inevitable question came. No, not about houses. Not about mortgage rates. Not about the chances of appreciation in value. No, as soon as Hottie exited the vehicle, my mother excitedly asked this from the backseat:
“Okay, how old is he?”
Sigh. “Hey, Ma, you wanna maybe close the door first?”
Dad chuckled and shook his head, and I rolled my eyes. Mom looked expectantly at me in the rearview mirror.
“I don’t know, 30? 31?”
“Oh, that’s okay,” Mom said happily.
Mom, apparently, is looking for a different kind of property for her eldest daughter. An upgrade. The realtor is definitely not included in the price of the sale.
So now he’s been dispatched to answer one question for me about the house I think I’m buying, and when he gets the answer, if it’s not objectionable, I think I’m gonna pull the trigger and put in an offer.
I imagine I’ll throw up shortly thereafter.
Hopefully not in front of Hottie McHousehunter.