Homeless

It's that easy. I'm a blogger now. A few clicks and I'm up and running my mouth. Maybe nobody will care about what I have to say. Goodness knows there are enough blogs out there. But I'm happy enough to just amuse myself, to have my journeys recorded somewhere. That way, when I'm aged and wisened, I'll look back and remember the crazy misfit I used to be.

For my first post, I have decided to chronicle our attempt to move on up like the Jeffersons. Which, if you knew me, is not our true motivation. But when it all comes down to it, that's what people think we're trying to do. Why fight it?

According to the ads plastered desperately all over the Internet and our neighborhood, we live in a "hot redevelopment area" of the city. I hate that description, by the way, but our agent won't change it. She'd rather focus on things like bringing a feng shui "expert" into our home. More about that later.

But before we get there, let me start from the beginning.

Two years and $10,000 later, hubby and I finally decided on a design plan to remodel our home. All we really wanted is to add on a romantic master suite, and expand our family room and dining areas. Oh, and to have space for another baby. That was actually the primary reason we embarked upon this madness. Though, we really don't need a living room, family room and a den--the former of which could easily be converted back into a bedroom.

So, for all two of those years I'm ambivalent. I don't care. I like my house as is. Why be greedy? But then the architect finally designs my dream master bath. I swoon. I'm in. Where do I sign?

Of course, the next day the lender tells hubby that we may avoid significant hassle and dust if we just find a home that meets our needs for the same amount he'll let us borrow. We move into looky loo mode. Maybe, if we find the right home we'll take his advice.

Hubby turns me on to MLS.com, a website which quickly replaces Yelp as my most visited space on the web. One of the first homes I call up is two blocks away. We set up an appointment.

The seller’s agent assures us that it "can be had" for the price we quote. It is too big for my middle class sensibilities, but it is beautiful. To top it off, it is in a neighborhood we adore. We roam its wide, tree-lined streets nearly every Christmas, to delight our daughter with all the twinkling lights the rich folk hang up. After our showing, we go out to dinner, then make a trek back into the neighborhood to sneak another peek that night. The house looks back at us serenely, beckoning us, "buy me." Also, the neighborhood is divinely peaceful in the evening, with none of the freeway noise our house enjoys. But it's like a wedding dress. You can't just buy the first one you try on.

We spend the next few weekends opening cabinets, listening to superfluous lies, writing down false names on registers, napping our 3-year-old in the car as we roam about like gypsies. Falling in love with a house but hating the neighborhood, and vice versa. Our hearts always went back to that big house on the perfect street.

I wanted to see it one more time before we made an offer. The seller’s agent agreed to meet me there, but she was delayed. The seller, who we'll call Ethel, let me in. She is 80, never married, an amateur painter who used to work for a large newspaper for many years. She leaves a Bible open in nearly every room in her house. She is my sister soulmate. The seller’s agent finally arrives and eventually becomes uncomfortable with our chattering. It is clear from the way we hit it off that Ethel, though the transaction never came up, would sell me that house for one dollar. Three percent of $1 ain't much. So, the agent encourages me to go off on my tour. Despite the undulating clutter, I clearly see "us" in that house for the first time.

I can see my husband and I lounging on a couch in our bedroom, snuggling and reading magazines. There's my daughter, picking tangerines off the backyard tree with a friend. Is that me, in the kitchen, leaned up against a counter reading a cookbook?

OK, so that house needs help. Because, for one thing, that kitchen is a disaster. There’s hole for a dishwasher but no dishwasher, the antique stove was sold off to the handyman, and the refrigerator is around the corner by the pantry. There’s plenty of cabinets, but most won’t close, and original tile is there but it's sunny yellow and cracked. Don't get me started on the flooring. Upstairs: nonsensical combinations of green and white dingy shag carpet. Downstairs: disco-era tile, and thick, used-to-be-white carpet that, for one thing, prevents the pocket doors to open. Nary an inch of exposed hardwood floor. The master bath has a shower tiled in multiple shades of green--mildew. The electrical and plumbing systems are a patchwork of old and new, and the bathtub won't drain.

There's another house that's a close second to this one in my heart. We're not so into '80s-era homes, so I almost declined to even look at it when my husband found it. Then I walked inside and there was just...something. Maybe it was the fact that it was built the same year we met. Plus, it's got a great layout, and it's turnkey. Just needs a little paint--and for the gold-veined mirrored tile to be removed from the living room wall. The same tile that is *still* up in my dad's house. It was in a community protected by a security guard at a gated entrance booth. It's a perfect day, and the neighborhood reminds us of the serenity of our childhoods. We talk about our daughter riding her bike in that protected little enclave. We look wistfully at each other, utter the word "offer?" and pull off to return to work.

I can't decide. Hubby creates a comparative budget forecast, concluding that that the first house we saw is the one for our family. He really didn't have to try that hard. We're not really This Old House people, and the fixer upping should fairly kill us if we survive escrow, but we adore old houses and feel most ourselves amongst the ghosts of families past. It's probably the genealogist in my hubby, and the latent gene my father passed down to me.

We make our offer. It's countered. We counter. It's ours. Well, that's how they make it seem on the home shows anyways. It really won't be until we have the keys in our hands--and that won't be until we sell our house. IF we sell our house.

We told the seller's agent that we'd give her the listing for our home. She came one Saturday and did a walk through. Afterwards, she came downstairs and sat beside me, speechless at first, then finding the words.

"What do you think needs to be done to your house?" she said, with the kind of sad look in her eyes that you don't want to see your doctor offer after a battery of tests.

All I could manage was "Uhhh," then a halting list of various spruces here and there. Maybe some paint? I saw her tuck in both lips and bite down hard.

Immediately, she moved us into "staging" mode, referring us to some vendors to spruce up the joint. We picked up the phone. It was so easy, I could kick myself for living in shabby surroundings all these years. A parade of painters, and even a design consultant who dissed every room in our home except our daughter's, traipsed through. (A few weeks later the agent brought in the feng shui expert, but really, that deserves an entry all its own.) I hung on the design consultant's every word, writing down thorough notes, snickering at his flippant remarks. Overall, he pronounced our home in good shape. Mostly needed paint, prints, and plants. And a big-time clutter reduction. Things I thought were cute and homey, he felt were dusty deal breakers. By the time we were done with the staging, I don't know who owned this house, because it didn't look like ours anymore. Like the consultant said, once you put it on the market, it is no longer yours.

So, we're homeless, essentially.

Looking around what used to be our house, hubby said it felt empty. In contrast, we've been quite warm. Candles burning. Soft music. You get the picture. There's something to be said for the energy that can make its way out when the clutter is gone.

And no, I don't believe in feng shui. Like I said, more about that later.