The problem is that I enjoy the hunt.
It all began quite innocently. We were visiting our friends Vera and David. Their little cottage was a dream. The old fashion kind, as if untouched by time (if you don’t count fifty grand). Even those houses that aren’t all gussied up cost bucks to bring up to code. “Code” is code for more money than you have. But they did it with know-how and sweat...and fifty grand.
I made the seemingly innocent mistake of saying: “Let us know if you ever want to sell”. Boyfriend took this as the green light to buy a house. He reminded me for the millionth time that he could get a VA loan (seems that his time spent circling Cuba during that little missile misunderstanding back in the Sixties had him eligible for veteran benefits). And so the real-estate game began.
We ruled out the Vera-David cottage—too far a walk to Liuzza’s By the Track, our neighborhood bar. Their house is on the other side of the Fair Grounds and until I can get the race track folks to create a bridge or walkway over the tracks I need to focus on my hood--Bayou St. John.
Problem is money. A hundred thousand more to live on our side. Yes we already live in the “it” neighborhood thanks to unreasonably reasonable rent (cheap). And our house (our landlord’s) is my dream home.
I have never cared to own a house. Every apartment or house I have rented felt like home. I get attached very easily. And on my budget (the sorry one I have and always will have) renting was and is the sensible route. No maintenance cost, no insurance or property tax. No foreclosure at the end of the day. But Boyfriend sees the other side: eviction. He’s got a point; we both have experienced that 30-day notice.
It is agreed that our landlord is great and eviction unlikely. But when you want to stay put forever, the fear that one’s landlord might retire one day from the real-estate game and move to the South of France, leaving you at the mercy of a new owner hell bent on condominiumizing you start to worry. Well, Boyfriend did.
I am a planner. I think about the future. My nest-egg sits securely in Whitney Bank drawing zip for interest but is there nonetheless. Still, I cling to renting with great conviction. I point out the six million foreclosures, termites, flooding, a bathroom falling off the house (happened to a friend while on the crapper), Chinese drywall… My list of reasons why home ownership does not live up to the old-school notion of security for life is endless and fact-based. But Boyfriend seems to believe in the dream. And like I said, I love the hunt.
So right when Boyfriend starts to simmer down and is willing (albeit begrudgingly) to end the quest to buy, I go and find a listing and the game begins anew. I tell the agent we have no interest in investment (get the “you’re nuts” look); that we are not enamored by granite counter tops, jacuzzi tubs, or central air (now the agent is really giving us the eye). Then when I state that the deal breaker is location, the house must be within walking distance of our neighborhood bar, an understanding look comes over the agent’s face. We in New Orleans respect the Keepers of Cold Beer.
Oh, and did I mention we have limited funds. Seems that the VA loan is not applicable to us AT ALL. And a dream bungalow in our current dream faughbourg is pretty much that—a dream. Yet just barely within the Liuzza/Bayou range (Okay, the Bayou St. John and City Park are just as strong a draw as our bar) I found two listings that could work. However the abandoned building across the street, used for AKA target practice, just didn’t fit the ambience we sought. On another street closer to suitable ambience were two houses for sale. Termites. It seems that when they have begun to tunnel and consume sheet rock it means they’ve already dined on the support beams and inner walls.
During these off and on hunts I would vacillate between enthusiasm and panic and then days of depression. One morning I woke up and couldn’t quite breathe. Just looking out my back door at the yard I’d worked so hard to cultivate would make me want to cry. Philipe’s kitchen, his dream kitchen, with all the shelves he’d built, walls stained from a over a thousand fine meals he’d created, was now being relegated to memories. It has taken us over three years to paint the various rooms of our house and plant the vines and trees that have made this rental our home.
Home ownership seems to be the American Dream, but for me it feels like a nightmare. And indeed it has become a dream gone bad for too many. Our economy reflects the greed of those that tempted folks’ need to feel secure within the walls of their very own house. But come on, it’s not your house—it belongs to the bank, the termites, flood waters, or the swamp upon which it was built (and one day it will return to that swamp).
Recently we put in a bid on that rare house in our increasingly expensive neighborhood. Perhaps the last time we’d ever find a listing so within our range. Butchered and maligned by dropped ceilings, covered windows, hideous flooring and a bunch of “etceteras” it needed a lot of work. And in its present state would absolutely suck the light from your soul. But we found a contractor who surprised us within our budget--it could be made right. On that day of the bid, after signing papers and crunching numbers, I needed to go take a look at the house, stare it down and face the fear.
Of course we did not have a key, we were merely in the bidding process, but this house had no lock (it could depress away any vandals; haunted by bad taste) and in we went. As we busied ourselves with ways to transform this house into a home in walked the new owner. Unbeknownst to our agent this young man’s offer had just been accepted. (Buying a bank owned property is like maneuvering a freeway blindfolded--not for the faint of heart). Boyfriend looked wounded, but I was relieved, reprieved and recalibrated. I could breath again. Maybe this just wasn’t my dream house or perhaps I’m just not suited for home ownership.
Yet, it would be nice to have some chickens, plant a tree that will still me mine when it matures, know that my herd of dogs and cats will never be excluded from a future lease, and paint my house any godawful color I want…
