The following article was written by a friend of mine after she and her husband started to look for a country home. They have since found their "perfect home" and are living happily in Columbia County. Although my friend's article certainly has a lot of humor in it, she also makes some very interesting points. I hope you enjoy it.
COUNTRY LIVING SPECIAL SECTION - The Independent, Thursday - May 28, 1998
A NEVER ENDING STORY SEARCHING FOR THAT FIRST COUNTRY HOME
By Isis Carter
Once upon a time there was an upwardly mobile couple of modest means who decided it was the right time to purchase their first home. And so, filled with the mixed emotions of fear, dread, optimism and enthusiasm, the two novices joined hands and set forth into the never-never land of country real estate.
I'm one-half of the hapless couple, and this is our true story. Only the names and some minor details have been changed to protect the innocent and prevent the guilty from filing a nuisance libel lawsuit.
Needle in a Haystack
Shopping for a home is an all-consuming obsession. No matter where I go or what I do, I scope every house I pass. I can size up the condition of a roof in the blink of an eye, and spot a Far Sale sign a mile away. Feverish, neck craning, eyes blazing, I'm a woman with a mission. I probably should have a warning bumper sticker on my car. Evidence that I've gone-over the edge is that I've actually bought-and read-not one but two Martha Stewart Living magazines although for years I poked fun at the "diva of domesticity."
Clients' from Hell
It's not really our real estate agent's fault that we haven't found the right home yet. In fairness to her, we are clients from hell: nervous, inexperienced and idealistic, with high expectations and a low bank account. We're a classic example of champagne taste on a domestic beer budget. But like pilgrims seeking Shangri-La, we fervently believe that our ideal, affordable dream home is just around the next corner...or maybe two. Ironically, the good news-and the bad-is that we're open to a myriad of possibilities in both architectural style and location, location, location.
We have only a reasonably short list of houses we won't consider. It includes: "Money Pits," usually billed as "handyman specials;" "Mongrels," where previous owners took a perfectly fine house and "improved" it by systematically dismantling all traces of its original architectural integrity; and, lastly, the category I fondly refer to as "amoeba homes," those nondescript, characterless houses that proliferate on small, flat, unnaturally tidy tracts of land.
Learning the lingo
Over the past few months we've become really good at deciphering newspaper ads, listings and the real estate bible, a.k:a. the Home Buyers Guide. . . Without racking my brain I can instantly decode"1-l/2B,3BR,LRWfFP,FRMLD, OHW, 200 amp." And I know when I read "Needs a little TLC," it means "stay away from this one." I've come to the conclusion that many real estate brokers are closet fiction writers. They love using a profusion of gushing adjectives and often take extreme poetic license when describing a home.
I've learned to recognize the most popular euphemisms, like "cozy" (both of you can't fit into the same room at the same time); "newly redecorated" (the previous owner took advantage of a sale on indoor-outdoor wall-to-wall astro-turf, or genuine faux wood grain veneer paneling); and "great potential" (bring your own wrecking ball). I am also in awe of photographers who capture houses, in glorious black and white, that are up for sale. They are the glamour mill photographers of the industry, with the remarkable ability to find the one, single angle that will make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.
On more than one occasion I've gazed longingly at a picture and gushed, "Look! We .must go see this one." Ever the voice of reality, my husband will glance at the photo and say, "We saw that on the swamp, across from the dead car cemetery, with the mad dog chained up next door."
House-hunting, I have learned that I am not, by nature, a voyeur. I find it incredibly weird and invasive to snoop through other people's private property, peek in closets, peer under sinks and poke around in bedrooms. I'm especially-uncomfortable when the owners are home, and if they are friendly, helpful guides, it's even worse. I become so unnerved I find.myself saying inane things like,
"Oh, your kitchen is such a cheerful shade of orange! I haven't seen that I color since Howard Johnson's closed down!"
Or, "Poodle print wall paper! How retro!"
Or, "My! You certainly have quite a collection of plastic doilies!"
Our home buying mission has been fraught with wild and wacky mishaps,
And baby makes five
We looked at a lovely center hall colonial, for example, that was spacious, had lots of charm, a lovely view and even a small in-ground swimming pool. Moreover; it was in our price range. So what's the hitch? The problem was the owners had turned a portion of the upstairs into a one-bedroom apartment.
We didn't want to become landlords, so that meant facing a major deconstruction project. To make matters worse, the apartment was occupied by a nice young couple with a sweet little baby. We took one look at their faces and knew we didn't have the heart to kick them out into the cold, cruel world.
In.another instance, we got excited when our agent told us she had lined up a great little cape with a fireplace and view of the Berkshires. But 1 never think it's a good sign when peoples' lives spill out of the house and sprawl across the yard. So as soon as we pulled into the driveway, I realized we were in trouble. The house-which also seemed to function as a beer can recycling center-was in disrepair and sorely needed to be disinfected. The clincher, though, was the chicken coop in the backyard. I bent over and peeked inside, when what to my wondrous eyes should appear but a flock of carcasses in a state of rigor mortis. I turned to our agent and asked sweetly, "Do the dead chickens come with the place, or do I have to bring my own?"
The NYPD Blue house
When we read an ad for an interesting sounding brick colonial, we begged (then strong-armed) our agent into showing it to us-against her better judgment, she is quick to point out. We arrived before the listing broker, sat in the car, and studied the exterior, Not too bad, not too bad, This one may have possibilities. A moment later an unmarked police car pulled up and a plainclothes detective, holster resting jauntily on his hips, strode purposefully up to the door and began knocking. Our agent put her head in her hands and moaned, "What have you two gotten me into? We're in the line of fire!" It seems "Detective Sipowitz" just wanted to talk to one of the tenants, but nobody was home.
When the listing agent arrived, he gamely volunteered to take the tour with us. The house was advertised as "totally and tastefully renovated," which I guess it was for what apparently was a former rooming house of dubious character. It had the most bizarre layout I've ever seen in my life. We discovered that one upstairs bedroom door was locked. As everyone else pattered down the hall to look at the next room, I watched Detective Sipowitz deftly pick the lock and open the door. He turned to me, winked, and said innocently, "All you have to do was jiggle the knob a little."
Fatal attraction house
We had a brief fling with the owners of a rambling old farmhouse that truly did have "great possibilities." Of course, it was not without flaws. It needed some cosmetic attention-rugs ripped up, wood floors refinished, paneling torn down, sheet rock put up, and so forth. But my husband and I were ready, willing and able to do. We were excited the day the building inspector came to give us his thumb's up on our contract. But our pleasure cruise into impending home ownership turned out to be the Titanic.
It was only the tip of the iceberg when the inspector discovered, he could lift the toilet right up off the floor. After all was said and done, we faced an urgent repair list that totaled the better part of 16 grand, which we didn't have to invest. The owners were crushed when we pulled out of the deal. They called us several times a day for a few days, begging and pleading for us to buy the house, teIling us they'd die if they didn't sell it. I was only half-joking when I told my husband we might come home one day to find our pet birdies boiled on the stove.
Nightmare on Elm
I think of one realtor as Freddie Kruger. He was the listing broker of our dream house----which turned into a nightmare experience. We loved absolutely everything about the house - the size, layout, yard, even the interior paint colors. It was a pristine little gem, just perfect for us in every way. We made an offer, and in our mind's eye, we were already moved in.
It turned out that the listing broker was a particularly greedy fellow and didn't want to share his commission with our agent. He pulled some unethical (but not illegal) tricks, put us on tenterhooks for nearly a week, and ultimately used our bid as leverage to manipulate one of his own customers into buying the house---for cash. No contest there.
Hunting for our first home is.an emotional roller coaster of agony, ecstasy and despair. Just last weekend I asked our real estate agent, "So, how are we going to torture each other today?" When our mission is finally accomplished, I'm going to nominate her for sainthood. I wish it was as easy as clicking our heels together and chanting "there's no place like home." For now, my husband and I just have to keep looking. We know we'll live happily ever after in our country home. We just don't know where.