Challenges That Go With House Hunting

The process of buying a home --reading the ads, looking for it, working with a realtor, affording it, and then actually buying it--is a process that gives new meaning to the word “homesickness.”

My husband and I, at each other’s throats for sharing what seems like 100 square feet of condominium space with each other and our two big dogs--no relationship is that strong--have decided it’s time to get into a home.

We started by reading the real estate ads. We did that for about two minutes since it is impossible to tell from those embellished and thesaurus-laden descriptions what any given home looks like. I don’t want to say the ads lie--I don’t want to say that because my own mom is a realtor and writes ads like that--but let’s say one should never underestimate the creative literary flair of a real estate agent.

So for a house that I might describe this way:

“What a dump! Gag me! Wouldn’t take it for free!”

A realtor would instead say:

“What a charmer! A real find! Reduced!”

And then there are the realtors who pick oddly graphic verbs: “House secretes charms and oozes coziness!”

Why not just say: “Two bedroom, two bathroom house, yard, trees.”

Forget it. Realtors would turn that into: “Two bedroom dwelling boasts windows and floors and not-to-be-believed living space!!! Two delightful, charming bathrooms each offering fabulous toilets and sinks, electrical outlets, plus a super-spacious, professionally landscaped outdoor living area (perfect for entertaining!!!) and flaunting extra-tall woody, perennial plants.”

And if learning to translate this language isn’t enough, there is also the factor of driving around with a real estate agent who has graduated (and they all have) from the demolition derby school of driving.

I can say this because, as I said before, my own mother is a realtor and, bless her heart, is one of the worst drivers I know. In fact, I figure the reason she sells a lot of houses is that her clients don’t want to keep getting back in the car with her.

“What color is the house you were going to show us?” my mother’s clients might ask. “Well, if we can’t walk there from here, I’m sure it’s just fine. We’ll take it.”

My mom’s not going to like me for making those comments, but she should have thought of that 20 years ago when she was big on the “eat-all-your-vegetables” thing, and used to impose curfews. But I digress.

House-hunting is a sickening pastime because even if you can stomach the descriptions and the driving, there are a lot of, well, homely homes out there. In every price range.

Take Aaron Spelling’s house in Los Angeles, for instance. I mean, even by L.A.’s show-offy standards, the thing is huge, just goes on forever, and is worth millions. Millions of dollars of ugliness. And I’m telling you, if I had to live in that house I would need some serious psychiatric care. For depression.

But ugly houses don’t depress realtors. Oh, no. Realtors are some of the most optimistic people around. To a realtor an ugly house represents an “investment.” And while they were taking creative writing classes and un-learning how to drive, they were also taking classes at the “All-It-Needs-Is-Some-French-Doors-and-a-Skylight” school.

I’m not exaggerating. To a realtor, the French doors and skylight combination is the panacea to all evils that lurk in the world. Got a headache? Get some French doors and a skylight.

And, of course, even the “investment” houses, the fixer-uppers, cost a lot of money.

But we’ve learned never to discuss the high cost of homes in front of a realtor because, if they haven’t already, they will launch into chorus after chorus, with all the irritation of Disneyland’s “It’s a Small World” ride, that “It’s a buyer’s market, after all, it’s a buyer’s, buyer’s market.”

This is helpful. And it’s exactly what the people looking to buy our condominium are saying.

We eventually found our dream home, lots of potential, featuring running water and electricity, boasting floors, an exhilarating roof, the whole bit. But someone beat us making an offer, and we didn’t get the house. We were heartbroken.

“How can you do this for a living?” I once asked my mom. “How can you raise the hopes of average folks, lead them to believe that they’re about to vastly improve their lives, move into a “have-to-see-it-to-believe-it” hacienda, just to get them violently carsick and bogged-down with mortgage payments?”

“That,” she said, looking smug, “that is the American dream.”

Stokes is a Los Angeles writer.