Baby stuff is like the Blob. You put a few toys in a corner and leave the room. By the time you come back, they've multiplied. You barely notice at first. Then you run outside to get the mail, and when you come back inside, you can't even see the floor! I can't take a step without hearing a squeek, rattle, "moooooo" or one of those plinky plunky "kiddie piano" songs. Last night my sandwich was eaten by a herd of My Little Ponies. This morning I body surfed to the kitchen on a sea of cabbage patch kids. It's out of control. My husband, Captain America, and I recently started looking for a new home, as the baby stuff continues to invade every last bit of space.
I remember when I was 19 years old and choosing my first apartment, I picked the first one I looked at. It was a shitty basement apartment with a putrid, mold scented carpet and a line of ants perpetually going nowhere, but it was fine with me. "400 bucks a month and my parents don't live here? Where do I sign?!" The yellow-green flu snot/stomach bile color of the bathroom didn't bother me, just like my first boyfriend's patchy teenage moustache didn't bother me, because I wasn't committed to that place. It was a fling. But it's not so easy to choose a "forever" house.
You would think that the internet would make it pretty easy these days, but we quickly learned the extent to which pictures lie. I imagine it must be like online dating. You get all excited about someone until you meet them and realize that they Photoshopped out their mole cluster. Eventually, you get smart...if the only pictures are of the beautiful view off the deck, you know not to bother. It's the equivalent of a tiny, fuzzy head shot on Match.com. There's a reason. Of course, there's only so much you can do to save your time, because even if there are fifty accurate pictures, they're not going to mention their annoying Mickey Mouse voice/undying curry stench seeping from the walls.
I have to admit that the stress of house hunting has been a tiny ripple in the placid sea of my marriage, as Captain America and I have never had the same priorities when it comes to choosing a home. He thinks it's "crazy" that I reject houses because the basement seems haunted, or because I'm turned off by the previous owner's window treatments. He thinks it's "ridiculous" that I don't want to hurt the previous owners' feelings by buying a foreclosure, and somehow he doesn't understand why I can't possibly live the rest of my life on Goat Fell Road.
He, on the other hand, can overlook extensive water damage because there's a tree house.
Another source of anxiety is my moderate phobia of real estate agents. They're just so desperate, it makes me nervous. The way they can make bats in the attic sound like a good thing ("They sound kinda like birds. It'll be like spring all the time! Plus, you're gonna save a boatload of money on bug spray!") is very unnerving. They just come on too strong. They're the guy who calls ten times a day after one date.
This is where Captain America comes in handy. Though he's one of the friendliest people I know, when it comes to making large purchases, he becomes as stone-faced and as a secret service agent (complete with blank stare, sunglasses and earpiece). A realtor circling us like a vulture at an open house is met with a surly eye-roll. Another asks how much we're pre-approved for, and he snaps, "Enough to buy this house, ok?!" The minute the deal is closed, he's asking them about their kids and inviting them along to our celebratory dinner and a movie date.
This attitude becomes problematic when it's time to agree on a price, though. He has what I often refer to as a "negotiating disorder." This is different from frugality. He's willing to spend the money, but he won't be happy unless he got them down one more dollar. This is why it wasn't easy for him once we did find the perfect house - in this market, he wasn't expecting kiddie pageant caliber competition.
When we walked in, I knew right away. I shrieked like a tween, "Oh my God!!!"
Captain America gave me the "Are you fucking kidding me?" eyes (he usually reserves those as a response to a first offer) and mouthed "poker face" to me behind the realtor's back, but I couldn't help myself. I was mentally arranging furniture before we even went upstairs. I wanted to go back and steal the For Sale sign that night, but Captain America wanted to "play it cool" and wait a WEEK to submit an offer.
"When you're in love, you don't wait to call," I begged, "You're lucky you never waited a week to call ME!! We wouldn't be here right now, that's for sure." He finally agreed to put in the offer on the condition that I calm down and watch wrestling instead of the Bachelor.
Waiting to hear if your offer has been accepted is almost as bad as waiting for the plus sign to show up on a pregnancy test - at least that only takes a few minutes! Every time the phone rang, I wanted to throw up. The stomach flip was reminiscent of Hanson mania circa 1996 and the butterflies I used to get when Taylor looked into the camera "at me." After we didn't hear back the first day I started to lose it a little bit.
"Whyyyy haven't they callllled," I wailed dramatically, and laid down next to my daughter on a bed of stuffed animals. I pictured living in this same condo, surrounded by baby stuff, forever. She'd just have to wade through it to meet her prom date at the front door.
By dinner time on the second day of waiting, my feelings were hurt and I felt rejected. I pushed my food (and a few troll dolls) around my plate, pouting. Captain America tried to cheer me up, "It's not personal, babe. I mean, the house JUST went on the market! It's like they've been in a serious relationship for years and years, and they're finally single. Even if it's a great offer, they can't go back off the market just like that."
"Please! They just want to keep us on the back burner until something better comes along!" I cried like a high schooler stood up to the dance.
After almost a week of back and forth, I had finally decided to clear the decks and start looking at other listings, when the realtor called. They'd accept our offer as long as we paid all our own closing costs. At first I was sure Captain America would go into full-on Sean Penn vs. the paparazzi mode and resubmit a final offer of "five dollars and you can go fuck yourself," but he just looked at me and said, "That's fair." I wish I could say that his negotiating disorder has improved, but really I think I was just starting to scare him.
This is where house hunting and courtship part ways, as most people probably wouldn't counter-offer a marriage proposal ("Fine, I'll marry you if you'll stop wearing that funky cologne and get rid of your frickin' sideburns for God's sake"). But it's good enough for us. Maybe the house did settle for us, and maybe it'll always wonder if it could have done better, but we love it enough to make this work. We close next month, and it can't happen soon enough! Until then, the infestation continues...a sorority of dolls has taken over my bathroom and they're starting to whisper about me behind my back...
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