Middle-class husband meets villa on the hill

It STARTS INNOCENTLY enough. “Spring Home Tour,” the brochure says. “All proceeds benefit the high school.”

It begins as “Candide.” It becomes, for me, “Heart of Darkness.”

Obviously, whoever said “Home is where the heart is” never visited my little upscale suburb of La Canada. Here, “home” is where the entertainment center is. “Home” means a Viking range, granite countertops, a marble-encased Jacuzzi bath, an exercise room, a wine cellar and an opulent master suite. Every home but mine. Ours is your basic 3-bedroom midcentury ranch, not updated since LBJ.

Envy. It’s an ugly emotion. Soon, it will engulf me.

We gather in the bright morning sun, the women dressed like spring gardens. There are a few other men. The looks we receive are, I’m guessing, like the ones reserved for the men who survived the Titanic.

My own feelings are more akin to those left behind on that doomed ship’s decks. My wife has assured me this will be fun: “We’ll spend the morning together and get to see some nice homes, and it helps the schools.”

Translation: “Since you don’t have a real job, one that would allow us to live in the style that I, a Stanford graduate, should have, you may as well come. Also, if you don’t, you’ll never see the inside of Dodger Stadium again.”

Growing up, home was a 50-foot-long, 8-foot-wide trailer. It shook when the wind blew, and once a Texas tornado put it on its side. It had furniture from Montgomery Ward and Sears, including the bunk bed I shared with my brother and fell out of more than once.

Over the years, I have not strayed far from my roots. I fear that the docents will sense my lack of sophistication. They’ll take one look and, like a scornful maitre d’, usher me out.

To loosely quote the Talking Heads: “How did I get here? This is not my beautiful house.”

Our first stop is the “Spanish Mediterranean.” Built in 2000, “the owners have successfully incorporated old world charm into an updated floor plan,” our brochure says.

Indeed they have. It has two entertainment centers, one in the office. And a pool and spa. And a three-car garage.

In the master suite, there is a very tall bed. It is smothered with pillows.

Where, I wonder, do the pillows go when bedtime comes? Are they tossed on the floor, to be tripped over during a late-night visit to the bathroom? Or do they become part of an elaborate game of bedroom hide-and-seek? Oddly, no one else seems concerned with such issues.

And so it’s down the hall, where a docent welcomes us to “the children’s wing.”

Now, my children eat chicken wings. Their imaginations sometimes take flight. We once won a football game on a wing and a prayer. My poor house, alas, is wingless.

Only one house, and my worst fears are confirmed. It is as if “rube” has been tattooed on my forehead.

Next up, the “English country house.”

“This picturesque home was built in 1928 and lovingly restored in 2002 with great respect for its original antiquity,” the brochure says.

Or, as a docent explains as we stand, shod in hospital booties, in the entryway: “They took it down to the studs and redid it.”

It is, as houses go these days, small. About 2,500 square feet. But it is on a lot the size of an aircraft carrier. And, surprise, “It just went on the market,” a docent whispers.

Upstairs, there is a tall bed.

Soon, a rich person will buy this house. A tall rich person. Unlike me, this person didn’t spend his college years arguing with fellow English literature majors over homoerotic themes in Shakespeare. No. They, along with other bright students, gathered in secret, divvying up the good majors that prepared them for high-paying careers in the business world.

We move on to the “Tuscan villa.” It’s on a hill. It was once owned, we learn, by a former publisher of the Los Angeles Times.

She lived much better than her employees.

At the entrance, we are asked to notice the custom wrought-iron gate. “It’s hand rusted,” the docent says.

Inside, another docent points out the extensive use of “distressed” wood. At last! My two boys have futures -- they are natural “distressers,” having already honed their craft on a coffee table left over from my first marriage. I remember how that wife loved that table. I wonder why this wife never stopped her offspring from pounding it to dust.

By now, a pattern is emerging. Everything in these homes has names. The furniture -- it’s not a chair, it’s a “lovely reproduction of an 18th century English rocker.” The flooring isn’t stone, it’s “imported limestone from Timbuktu.” It’s not wood paneling, it’s “handcrafted Brazilian mahogany.”

The artwork is by someone. The rugs are from somewhere. Near as I can tell, none of it is from Sears.

I fear my Barcalounger does not stack up.

Apparently, the Tuscan villa is bad luck. Built in 1996, it’s now on its third or fourth owner. Perhaps it’s the size: “only 5,000 square feet,” we’re told.

Upstairs, in the master bedroom, there is, of course, a tall bed filled with pillows. I can no longer contain myself; why, I whisper to my wife, must everyone have a tall bed? How does one gracefully enter such a bed?

Perhaps, I suggest, I’m suffering from post-traumatic tall bed syndrome, having fallen out of that bunk bed as a youth.

She is not amused.

In the master bath, the shower has nozzles on both sides.

“My husband would like that, get in there all steamy,” purrs the docent. I edge toward the door, feeling a bit warm myself.

Finally, we arrive at the “Connecticut farmhouse.” At first glance, it looks like a 1950s California ranch-style home. Which it was. But, “extensive remodeling spanning the past decade has graciously maintained the home’s classic style while making 21st century conveniences a reality,” the brochure announces.

My eyes, though, go immediately to the white wood ceilings. They are stained with ugly brown splotches. I’m feeling the homeowner’s pain. A leaky roof, perhaps, or worse, mold.

Of course, good manners keep me from saying anything.

In the living room, the owner’s architect is describing the renovations. After raising the ceilings and painting them, something seemed amiss. So they painted knotholes on the wood.

Head spinning, I turn a corner. We run into a friend’s wife. She’s with another woman. “Wow,” she says to me, “I could never get my husband to go on this.”

It’s over. I’m going home to rust some things.