Waking From Dream of Ownership
Sure, home ownership offers a character-building, American Dream peak experience. Of course, the joys of tending your very own garden or flushing your very own toilets are indescribable. Naturally, life only gets better when you move into your first home.
Wrong.
Last year, I celebrated a holiday, Escrow’s Birthday, one day out of 365 that marked my Waterloo. Perhaps I expected too much when I signed all those silly closing documents with an overconfidence bordering on infallibility.
Like paying for an ultra-expensive psychiatrist, I wanted my first home to wash away all my neuroses. No more feelings of inadequacy, I thought, now that I own a place with vaulted ceilings and a trash compactor.
Home ownership lets you pretend you are responsible, that you can take charge and problem-solve with unflappable ease. Yet take a half-day to examine your insurance policy and you cannot help but feel like a victim-in-training. So many perils to worry about, from explosion to civil commotion to self-propelled missiles and spacecraft.
At first I laughed off these so-called risks. But when a neighbor told me about the Blue Ice that fell from an airplane and landed on her bed, the laughter turned to fear.
“Crashed through my roof,” she reported. “I figured it was a crystal from some other galaxy, so I put it in the freezer. Only later did I find out it came from the plane’s bathroom.”
Beyond the danger of falling meteors of frozen human waste, I faced the considerable trauma of buying furniture. How are you supposed to select a sofa when you have no experience purchasing big things?
Choosing spaghetti sauce or shoes is a breeze. There is comfort in holding a product in your hand, knowing that you can pick it up and throw it out at any time. But after a year of nonstop shopping, I cannot even pick a fabric or choose between fluffy pillows or foam-filled reversible cushions. With the exception of a bed, chair and desk, my place remains embarrassingly empty.
Next comes new carpeting. You will find that everyone has an opinion about carpet: light is better than dark, plush is better than sculptured, berber is just plain better.
My advice to carpet buyers is to negotiate with total abandon. I met salespeople who almost salivated when I entered the store, and their quoted prices kept sinking with each step I made toward the door. The best part is when they whisper in your ear, “Hey buddy, I’ll even leave off the tax.”
If you are like most new homeowners, you must undergo the rite of passage known as a housewarming party. As guests rummage through your closets and inspect all your books, you will suddenly feel naked before the world. One enthusiastic visitor even plopped down on my bed, bounced up and down a few times, and finally rated it “good and firm.”
Join a membership store so you can buy crates of 100 quiches to microwave for those hungry critics, uh, friends.
The highlight of housewarming comes during the gift-giving ritual. You will no doubt receive items that at first seem ridiculous: a wax plant, a decanter, an ice cream maker. Beware of hasty judgments while unwrapping your presents. Within weeks I found myself happily gazing at my fake foliage while sipping sherry and scooping up gobs of homemade mint chip.
You will find that your interests and hobbies change as you get settled in your new place. Your weekends will revolve around chores and repairs, multiple trips to the local hardware store, and careful reading of the Real Estate section of the newspaper.
Stories of appreciation will no longer involve helping the homeless; instead, you will equate appreciation with equity and equity with profit. Your growing preoccupation with appreciation will inevitably lead you to consider remodeling.
Double your investment by adding tiles and enlarging that third bathroom! Triple your investment by ripping apart the kitchen and adding a skylight! Quadruple your investment by tearing down the whole house and rebuilding from scratch! Making money never sounded so much fun.
After one year, my home still feels like a hotel suite. I return from work and remind myself this is not a Hollywood set. At first I assumed that the place seemed so foreign to me because it was so clean. When I moved in, I devised a weekly cleaning schedule and posted my ingenious grid on the refrigerator. I followed the plan for about a month; by summertime the place was filthy.
Random dates have emerged as personal holidays, handy benchmarks of my first year as a homeowner. Feb. 10: first night. Feb. 17: first unexpected repair bill (for leak in sink). March 1: first alarming mortgage payment (they still alarm me). March 4: first roach kill. March 16: first homeowner association board meeting. April 2: first door-to-door salesperson (encyclopedia sets). April 18: first incomprehensible property tax bill.
Some days, I just rest on my one recliner and smile. All mine, I say out loud as I survey the living room and peek into the dining area of my private playground of 1,432 square feet. With the dishwasher churning in the kitchen, the stereo blasting in the den, and the geraniums growing in the yard, home ownership seems too good to be true.
But then a plane roars overhead.
