Home Ownership: Still Overrated

Real estate agents descend on our Days or Hampton Inn with appointments, MLS books, cold beverages, lunch reservations, and pre-approval from banks for “how much house we can buy.” This term, “how much house we can buy” is unofficial but was once upon a time used often, clung to constantly.

As corporate gypsies, my family frequently has had the dubious honor of working with real estate professionals. For the record, “corporate” and “gypsy” are words that don’t belong together. “Corporate” implies responsibility, “gypsy,” the opposite. As a group we’re conflicted, vulnerable and desperate.

On these house hunting trips I feel as if I’m running off a cliff, the forward momentum of a real estate agent grabbing my hand being all I have. I have no idea what color my parachute is, because I never stay in one place too long. Real estate agent is so shiny and bright with her golden hair that matches her Mercedes that I believe her, because I must. I disregard the fact that she doesn’t know the name of the governor or where to find NPR on the radio dial.

In the parking lot of the lunch restaurant, the real estate agents congratulate each other on their new leased cars as if cars were job promotions or new grandchildren. After lunch we slowly cruise by our agent’s house that looks as if it may have once belonged to either Aaron Spelling or The Beverly Hillbillies. I am left to imagine the master bedroom that is as vast as a kitchen, the lagoon style swimming pool, and the pergola with vining pink roses and all the other luxury features on which she has been waxing. She prattles about her faucets as if they are miraculous, although I can’t now imagine why.

Faucets never tell the whole story. There’s mystery behind dem walls.

An hour or so later, I stand in kitchen of my soon-to-be-owned house, that is listed at half the asking price of what we are pre-approved to buy. I still find the sum outrageous as someone who bought cheap diapers even for her firstborn. But I am proud of my resistance. Real estate agent pouts a little, but maybe that was my imagination. For but a split second I feel guilty for not “buying more house.”

Now go forward three years. The same golden haired real estate lady who told us how nice and perfect and well-priced our now owned house was, is back. She’s tooling around town now in this year’s Lexus, this time in the color of that other precious metal, silver.

Agent wonder refers to what was once described by her in real estate language as a “desirable, charming center-hall colonial in a park-like setting” as being “used,” as if speaking of an old Buick. She values this stuff, houses and cars, and knows exactly what she’s doing. Clucking her tongue in disapproval, she studies the basement carpet – that’s minor. But the next day what will forever be known in our family as the “S bomb” drops: A septic tank inspection that we were told was fine is now a “problem.” Yes, the issue of which we were never enlightened three years earlier comes back to haunt us.

For the next several months we settle comfortably into writing large checks and aging in dog years. Yes, there are backhoes in the yard. Every time I walk by a bathroom there is a new man scratching his head looking down the toilet. A toilet I wish I didn’t own. A lone tree, the major part of our once highly touted “park- like setting” falls victim to the heavy machinery. A guy without teeth says, “You mean no one ever told you about the artesian well that runs under this row of houses?”

As I clutch my infant in my arms I sense the driveway and my higher education dreams for my offspring sink. I briefly fantasize that I am a world renowned bottler of designer water, a modern day oil baron who started a business in her garage. I could slap a fancy label on the water bottles and sell it exclusively to real estate agents.

I knew then that home ownership equals mystery. Faucets? How do they work? Heat or air conditioning? How does it know? We can’t be bothered, but whether it’s Beverly Hills or a trailer park; whether it’s surrounded by a picket fence or a chain linker, it’s risky. Just because a bathroom is large and the sinks feature platinum faucets, there’s no immunity. So what did we do? We immediately bought another house.

Today, ten years later, we’re having a little problem called slab leaks. One wouldn’t have been so bad, but three leaks in less than one year has me wondering what the heck is going on underground now. I was so cool with the guy jackhammering up my tile floor the first two times, but I want and we need new pipes.

This time there will be no holes in the front yard, but holes in many walls. I’m sure the sight of befuddled plumbers wandering around in the closets, staring at the walls as if they are conjuring x-ray vision to unravel a mystery will seem perfectly normal after the first hour. Us corporate gypsies are nothing if not adaptable. I fully expect a toothless guy to show up any minute now to tell me about the ancient Indian burial ground upon which our neighborhood is built.

So here’s my inner gypsy’s dream house: a condo, preferbly rented, where saying, “not my problem,” will always be an option. There will be no lawn mowing. Perhaps there will be a community garden, where I only have to look at it.

Even though it’s anathema to the American Dream that’s been shoved down our throats for so long, the more I think about it, renting is a fine and admirable idea. Debunk the myth; warn your children. Real estate is no walk in the park-like setting. The house is only yours when something is the matter with it. The bank owns it at all other times. Run, gypsy, run. And rent.

* Cartoon used with permission from CartoonStock.com

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