“No luck yet?”
I’m sitting at a window table at Lulu’s with Tracey and our mutual bestie, Kara. Our schedules have been so hectic that this is the first time we’ve had a chance to get together in almost a month. “Oh, no,” I say, stabbing a hunk of feta cheese, “we’ve found a place. In fact, we’ve found a bunch of places. We just can’t buy any of them.”
Tracey smirks. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Tracey hasn’t quite been behind our move to the suburbs. She thinks we should simply find a house here in the city, but unless we colonize Grant Park, we’re not going to get all the land, lake, and privacy that we want. Every time I recount an unsuccessful real estate outing, Tracey cheers, “Team City!”
Kara’s from the Cambs and her mom’s still a practicing ob-gyn up there, so she’s been far more supportive of Team Suburbs. Plus, if she comes to see us, she has the option to tack on a visit to the’rents, too. “What’s going on?” Kara asks sympathetically, pushing a big hank of black hair back from her face. Her stacked, intricately carved gold bracelets clink merrily with the movement. Her jewelry’s the one nod to her Indian culture. “My parents said there are ten houses for sale in their subdivision.”
“Hey, I love their house! All those pretty trees and winding drives! You know, I should look at places in your parents’ neighborhood,” I say.
Kara shudders. “Please don’t. I’ll never be allowed to see you if I don’t swing by their place, too, and I already see them plenty. Plenty. I’m begging you as a friend to buy on the east, north, or south side.”
I’ve met Kara’s parents many times and they’re sweet and kind and adorable. . and absolutely merciless when it comes to their opinions on Kara’s life. As I’m sort of charmed by my overbearing family, sometimes I don’t realize that others frown on being told what to do quite so much.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry; I forgot.”
The last time we got together, Kara shared her latest story about a mandatory parental fix-up. Not only was her date forty and still living at home, but he spent the whole evening lecturing Kara on the evils of high-fructose corn syrup and liquor after she ordered a rum and Coke. As she saw it, her only course of action was to drink more. So she did. But then she had to endure a hangover-tinged lecture the next morning from her mom after getting a “bad report”39 from her date.
“She’s right; it’s a bloodbath up there,” I agree. “Just about everything in our price range is either a short sale or in foreclosure.”
“Short sales are tricky,”Tracey adds. “Lenders are really hesitant to allow owners to sell properties at a loss, especially now.”
I add, “We’re finding that the problem with buying a short sale is that the seller’s bank has to approve our offer, and in a lot of cases we’re dealing with a third-party negotiator who won’t give us any idea of what we’re bidding against so we know what to offer. On the one hand, we don’t want to strong-arm anyone out of their family home with a superaggressive bid, but on the other, we question the wisdom of paying full price in this market. Every time we’ve guessed at an equitable price, we’ve been shut out.”
I take a bite from my feta plate before I continue. “We fell in love with one house with a big pool and an enormous wooded lot with hiking trails—”
“You don’t hike,”Tracey interjects.
“I might if I had my own trail,” I argue. “Plus there was a fourcar garage—”
Tracey interrupts, “You have two cars.”
“I’m aware of that. But the storage would be nice, and Mac could have used part of the garage as a workshop. And there was a fab sunroom and a sweet media room, but it doesn’t matter, because there’s a third party involved and our bank won’t work with them and we lost out. Then we saw a house that we completely loved, but the taxes alone would add almost three thousand dollars to our monthly mortgage payment and we just couldn’t.”40
Tracey stirs raw sugar into her iced tea and remarks, “You’re paying for their amazing school system, which… Oh, I’m sorry. Remind me again which of your offspring will be attending Abington Cambs Country Day. Daisy? Agent Jack Bauer?”
I purse my lips at her41 and continue. “Then on Sunday, we found the frigging promised land. Our banker called us and told us about a foreclosure. It was light-years beyond the top of our comfort level in terms of price, but he said the word on the street was that their bank would take any offer.”
Mac and I were dying when we pulled down the private lane and saw the house. We were looking at an estate with towers and everything, and there was no squinting involved.42 We could not believe our luck as we passed under the wisteria-vined arbor and down the winding bluestone path. “No way!” we kept exclaiming to each other. “No way!” Right as we got to the door, a family of deer dashed across the lawn. What timing! It was as though a film crew were right offstage shouting, “Cue the deer! Cue the deer!”
Liz was doing an open house that day, so she couldn’t come with us. Instead, she arranged for us to meet with the Realtor who was working with the bank.
Mac and I walked around with our jaws slack. Not only was it eleventy thousand square feet,43 but the original owner was a builder and this place was his baby. Every detail was pitch-perfect, from the custom millwork to the library with the mahogany built-ins to the eight-jetted steam shower. And the home gym with the rubber matting and the ballet bar and mirrored walls? My God, I’ve belonged to health clubs that weren’t as nice. Or big.
This was our better-than-our-wildest-dreams house! And according to our inside source, it was in our budget! We were ready to write a check on the spot until we climbed up into the south tower.
“The place was insane,” I tell them. “But then we ran into the owner’s teenage daughter up in the third-floor library loft, working on her computer. The Realtor congratulated her on the nice job she’d been doing, which Mac and I didn’t understand.
“As soon as we got down to the second level, the Realtor leaned in to us all conspiratorially and mentioned that the daughter had been industriously listing the family’s possessions on Craigslist and eBay. Turns out the bank was allowing the foreclosed family to live in the house until they found a buyer, and the kid was trying to raise cash to help with moving expenses.”
Kara inadvertently clutches her chest. “Oh, God.”
“Yeah,” I continue. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Yo, kid, sorry your dad lost his empire. Pack up all your gymnastic medals and shit, because I’ma keep my Barbie collection in your room!’ I mean, maybe we’re fools for not jumping on the opportunity, but we couldn’t do it.”
“Of course you couldn’t,” Kara confirms.
“Chef ’s kitchen?”Tracey asks.
“The kitchen alone was a thousand square feet, with furnituregrade cabinets, and they weren’t messing around with some rinkydink Wolf stove. Oh, no, they had a freaking AGA cooker. And there was a TV in the fridge door.”
“How many bathrooms?” Tracey prompts.
“Five full, three half. And one of them had an onyx countertop. Ridiculous.”
Tracey toys with her spoon before placing it by the side of her plate. “Did it have a wet bar?”
“One on the main level, a full bar in the walkout basement, and a bar area with the outdoor kitchen by the pool’s waterfall.”
“Oh, yeah.” Tracey smirks. “You made the right choice.” She doesn’t gloat and exclaim, “Team City!” like she normally does. She doesn’t have to.
“My point is, we need to find something soon before I shoot Vienna in her hair extensions,” I say.
“Accidentally, of course,” Kara adds.
“Yeah.” I snort. “Accidentally. Get this — she’s aware of the problems we have with gangs in the neighborhood. And she realizes we trend a tiny bit militia and we’re always on high alert, right?”
“Is it just exhausting to be you sometimes?” Tracey asks.
I glance over at Tracey and answer her honestly. “Sometimes. Anyway, Mac’s fairly serious about hitting the gym before work ever since he saw himself in that three-way mirror at Bloomingdale’s. So last week, it’s about four thirty a.m., and he’s just about to go out the back door when he hears noises up front. Right as he gets to the front door, it swings open and Vienna staggers in wearing this ridiculous pink chinchilla bolero. Mac is all,‘Can I help you?’ And she slurs, ‘I’m here to show the house,’ and then he notices a drunken guy in tow. I guess she met him at a club and he wanted to see the house she had for sale. When Mac yelled at her — and believe me, there was yelling — she was all, ‘It’s my house and I’m allowed to be here!’ The whole situation kind of devolved from there, and when Vienna finally left, Mac honestly couldn’t figure out whether she was that stupid or that arrogant.”
Tracey quips, “Can’t it be both?”
“Ooh,” Kara squeals. “I saw her in that exact coat in OK! when I was at the nail salon last month. Wow, times must be tough for her if she’s recycling her outfits.”
“Really?” I ask. “That’s your takeaway from this situation?”
Kara’s suddenly sheepish. “Oops, sorry. What are you gonna do?”
I shrug. “We keep searching. I don’t care if we have to look at every house in the AC; we are moving there.”
“Thanks for coming with us. These places are starting to blur together and we’re at the point where we’re having trouble keeping them straight,” Mac says. Tracey’s accompanying us to a house we saw earlier this week. We feel like it has potential because of a couple of key features, but want a second opinion from a trusted adviser. She’s up front with him, as we both hope to gauge her first reaction of the house when we drive up.
“Here’s the thing, Trace,” I begin. “When Liz showed us this place, she said, ‘A house like this takes a specific buyer.’ ”
Tracey’s mom is a Realtor, so she knows all the code words, like how “cozy” means “microscopic” and “conveniently located” means “freeway-adjacent.” “So you want me there to help you determine whether the home’s tackiness is superficial or goes all the way down to the bone.”
“Bingo. I guess because my taste trends a bit juvenile when it comes to decorating I can’t get a bead on this place. I’m not sure if the house is over-the-top or really elegant,” I reply. Tracey has exquisite taste in antiques, 44 so I will absolutely do as she advises.
Because I grew up in a house that was so austere, I have trouble determining what’s stylish in terms of interiors. I’ve seen tons of television shows where designers demonstrate how to replicate a high-end piece with a low-cost improvisation, and I almost always prefer the inexpensive knockoff. So I figure if we’re going to make the biggest investment of our lives, I don’t want to discount a place for being gaudy when it’s actually gilded.
After we get off the highway, we wind down a couple of wooded lanes on the way to our potential street.
“Great neighborhood so far,” Tracey tells us, as we pass a couple of lovely Arts and Crafts — style homes with stunning river-rock stone supports, exposed roof rafters, and wide triangular eaves. One of them has the most gorgeous stained-glass windows I’ve ever seen, all done up in brown and gold florals. Tracey amends her approval with, “I mean, if you have to move to the suburbs.”
We pass a number of houses running the gamut from cute to spectacular. “I like that one a lot,” I say, pointing out the Prairie-style place with tons of symmetrical clerestory windows as we round the corner to the listing. “It’s so, like, Frank Lloyd Wright.”
“You ought to research that address — Wright built many homes up here. That may be one of his actual designs,” Tracey tells me.
Mac replies, “Cool,” and slows as we approach the circular stone driveway. Tracey’s not looking at what might be our house, because her attention has been drawn to the massive Shingle-style home across the street.
“How fabulous is that?”Tracey crows about the home’s elegant, understated simplicity. “It’s like a perfect beach house all tucked away here back in the woods. This is my favorite kind of home. Did you know Shingle style was the backlash to all those fussy Victorianstyle places at the turn of the century? I bet those shingles are made of white cedar, because—” And that’s when Tracey realizes we’ve parked.
“We’re here,” Mac tells her. He and I both hold our breath while we anticipate her initial reaction.
Tracey leans forward to peer through the windshield.
“Oh, sweet mother of Jesus.”
Mac and I exchange glances in the rearview mirror. I was bracing myself for that reaction, as this house definitely doesn’t look like anything else in the neighborhood, with its modern twist on French Provincial architecture. The house is massive gray stucco with a high hip roof, lots of balustrades, and matching twin chimneys. The windows are tall and paned, cutting into the cornices, and their shape is outlined by continual lines of raised molding. The whole house is balanced and symmetrical and. . a tad dramatic.45
“Is the entry over-the-top?” I ask. Part of me already knows it is, and yet the part of me from a crappy Indiana ranch house can’t help but being impressed.
“Just a little,” Tracey agrees; then she points to the oversize cement urns flanking either side of the door. “Also, the owners need to get Sabrina Soto on the phone stat to talk about staging. Because nothing says ‘million-dollar home’ more than four dollars’ worth of plastic plants spray-painted green.”
We knock and then let ourselves in, where Liz awaits.
Last time we were here it was overcast and gray and we didn’t get a great look at some of the rooms because it was so dark. We struggled unsuccessfully with the lights in the foyer, so we didn’t experience the fully lit impact of it until now.
“Hey, you figured out the switches,” Mac comments.
“Okay, Tracey, here’s where I need your expertise. All of this crown molding — is it rich and expensive or is it too much?” The painted woodwork crisscrosses all over the foyer, running up and down the walls and across the ceilings, following the flow of a staircase that first curves in one direction and then the other. The banister’s wound with an ivy swag that trails up the stairs and across the Juliet balcony. An ornate chandelier hangs low over the entryway, draped in string after string of beads and crystals, branching off into hundreds of little light-topped arms, which make the foyer as bright as an operating room.
Sure, my eyes are distracted by all that’s going on in the vicinity of the walls, but then again, I can’t help but notice how open and airy everything is. Plus the scope of the staircase is nothing short of grand. That’s worth noting, right?
Tracey takes in the whole room before answering, “It depends.”
“On?” Mac prompts.
“On whether or not you’re a Real Housewife of New Jersey.”
Ouch.
We pass from the flamboyant hallway into an equally ornate and scroll-y dining room. “I figured out the lights in here, too,” Liz informs us. “Look up.” The last time we were here in the relative darkness, we thought the tray ceiling had been painted with some light gray paint for a little architectural contrast. Yet when Liz hits the switch, the whole thing begins to glow from the silver-leaf treatment and tiny LED lights sprinkled randomly throughout twinkle like miniature stars.
“Did not see that coming,” Mac notes.
Tracey says nothing, instead simply choosing to nod. Yet I have to wonder how twinkly and festive the ceiling might feel around a properly set table full of family and friends. I bet it’s not awful.
We circle around the foyer to the powder room. I actually thought this room was pretty cool the last time we were here, but in watching Tracey’s reaction to the enormous tufted button holding up swags and swags of alternating cranberry and forest layers of silk on the ceiling, I rethink my position.46
“It’s like being at the circus!”
“But the ceiling’s made of silk,” I protest. “Silk is a nice fabric, right?”
“Oh, honey, yes, but not on a bathroom ceiling. The material’s not the problem — it’s the context.” She continues to peer at the fixtures. “Wait. There’s a hookah in here — no, this isn’t a circus. Rather, it’s more like The Thousand and One Nights. I shall call this room ‘Scheherazade Takes a Shit,’ ” Tracey says, attempting — and failing — to not bray with laughter.
We pass into an electric green reading room filled with fake potted palms. Dusty plastic leaves form an awning over our heads. Tracey strolls the perimeter of the room, first taking in the paint choices and then inspecting the zebra-skin couch topped with round fuchsia, yellow, and royal blue throw pillows. “This room looks like Tommy Bahama banged a bag of Skittles.”
There’s an enormous lion-headed water feature in the corner, and the window looks out over the statue of a bear on the patio. “So, what do you think, kids,” Tracey asks, “Russian Mafia or Italian Mafia?”
“But,” I protest,“paint can be changed. Candice Olson says so all the time. And check out the window treatments!” Last time we were here, I fell in love with the thick white wooden-slat blinds. “Those are custom-made plantation shades!”
Tracey’s not having it. “Yeah, and you certainly could never replicate those, right?”
Ooh, good point.
“To be fair, Tracey, you’ve told me how much you love French Provincial houses.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “In Provence.”
I feel like I have to defend our bringing her here, so I say,“I swear this place didn’t seem nearly so over-the-top with the lights off.”
Before she can get in another snarky remark, I add, “Plus, this room isn’t what sold us. You haven’t yet seen the adorable guesthouse off the back patio. A guesthouse! As in a separate house for guests! You know what people in Indiana don’t have? A spare house for visitors. How exciting is that? Guests could have all the peace and privacy they wanted. Genius! And more important, there’s a pool and a pond. Do you realize if we buy this house we could be all, ‘We’ve got a pool and a pond. Pond would be good for you,’ every time someone came to visit. How hilarious would that be?”
“Mia, you can’t drop that kind of cash on a house just because you want to quote Caddyshack.”
I guess we’ll see about that.
“Let’s just finish the tour before we completely rule it out,” I reason.
We move on to the ultra-high-end kitchen, with its custom cabinetry and PRO series Sub-Zero fridge and wine cooler and double dishwasher and. . ropes and ropes of fake ivy and pretend grapes. They seem to have snaked their way from the entry hall, over the balcony, and back down the wall in here. The plastic vines are strewn everywhere — on top of cabinets, over the fridge, looped from the ceiling, and woven into the window treatments. Tracey grows increasingly appalled. “No, seriously, the owners have to fire this home stager. Hell, I might just e-mail some photos to Get It Sold, because clearly they could use the help.”
Then we get to the big dance — the two-story family room with its trompe l’oeil tray ceiling with its columns and cherubs. Tracey doesn’t notice it until I point up, and when she does, she jumps a little. “It just gets better and better.”
“To be fair, that wasn’t done cheaply,” I say, attempting to be the devil’s advocate for the house. I’m coming around to agreeing that it might be a tad much, but someone dropped a ton of cash upgrading this place, and I really do like the pool and the pond.
Okay, I can’t not say it again.
Pond would be good for you.
See? Hilarious! Every time!
“Oh, no,”Tracey agrees. “You’re right on target there. Someone paid big money on these hideous treatments, thus proving the axiom ‘You can’t buy taste.’ ”
Mac’s been looking in the pantry (which, of course, boasts another ginormous chandelier) (and, of course, impressed me on our last visit) and comes out to rejoin the conversation. “Obviously the place isn’t our taste—”
“This is no one’s taste,” Tracey insists.
Mac is undeterred. “But the reason we brought you here is to get your opinion on the bones of the place. Is what’s underneath all the grapes and sparkles worth salvaging?”
Tracey pulls out a chair and has a seat at the rococo-legged kitchen table with the five-inch-thick marble top. “Here’s my issue with that — you said the house was priced reasonably but not great.”
Liz sits across from us and she nods, toying with the enormous bowl of fake plastic grapes in the center. “I feel like they’d really need to come down on the asking price to make this place a good deal, and from what the listing agent says, they’re not terribly negotiable. It’s not a short-sale situation, at least not yet.”
Tracey processes this information. “To me, it doesn’t make financial sense to pay a premium for expensive fixtures and then get rid of them. You’re going to have to fork over multiple thousands to chase the ghost of Carmella Soprano out of here. You want to rip stuff out? Then I suggest you find a house that’s priced accordingly or needs rehabbing.”
Mac nods. “That’s what I’ve been telling Mia. I say if we want the most house for our money, we buy a fixer-upper, but she’s totally against it.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Mia. Why so opposed?”Tracey asks.
“Redecorate? Yes. Rehab? No. I mean, remember when we had the leaky shower pan in the rental house on Old Gold Ave., and the one-week repair job turned into a two-month bath-gutting odyssey? No, thanks. I’d rather keep looking,” I reply.
Mac turns to me, “So this place? It’s out of the running?”
“Tracey makes a lot of sense about not tearing down expensive finishes,” I have to admit. “Should we go?” I rise from the table.
“Oh, no, no — I’ve got to see what treasures await upstairs,” Tracey says.
I’m not sure what particular feature finally pushes Tracey over the edge — whether it’s the Wild West saloon doors separating the hot-pink master toilet from the hot-pink sunken tub47 or the massive elk-antler chandelier in the upstairs den or the wire-enclosed children’s bed that’s supposed to look like a princess coach but instead resembles a coast guard marine-rescue cage. She spends most of the ride to the city cackling and wiping her eyes.
On the plus side, I’m so glad we brought Tracey, because now we’re not buying a house that can’t be made tasteful.
The downside is, we won’t have a pool or a pond, and either one would have been good for me.
“Anything worth noting today?”
I say nothing, choosing only to grit my teeth in response.
“That bad?” Mac asks gently. I’ve just come in the back door from an entire day spent up in the Cambs.
While Mac’s at work, I’ve been tasked with running real estate recon missions. During the week it’s my job to weed out the stinkers so he doesn’t have to spend his weekends grimacing at faux-wood paneling and unfinished basements. I’m fine with the arrangement, because I have a looming deadline, which means I want to do anything except what I’m supposed to be doing.
The truth is that the places I saw weren’t so awful today — at least comparatively — provided one has a deep and abiding love for mauve paint, gold faucets, and flood damage. At the moment, my glowering is due less to the fruitless search and more because of what I catch him doing. He’s standing over the stove massacring thirty dollars’ worth of fresh ingredients from Whole Foods in an attempt to make dinner.
A few weeks ago, while we were at the market, I spotted a jar of herbs and sauce called Bush’s Chili Magic Chili Starter. I launched my body in front of it, hoping Mac wouldn’t notice, but I was too slow. He grabbed it, announcing, “Let’s make 2010 the year I learn to master chili!” just as I was thinking, Let’s make 2010 the year you stop trying to master chili. I realize some wives would love it if their husbands took the initiative to cook dinner, but perhaps they don’t realize they’d have to eat whatever their husbands make.48 Because I hate the idea of wasting food — or hurting his feelings — I always choke down whatever he serves.
I take off my coat and come over to kiss him. Then I sneak a glance into the saucepan. I’m no chili aficionado, but I’m pretty sure it’s never supposed to be that color.
“See anything worth noting today?” he inquires.
“Sort of,” I say, grabbing a glass of wine from the fridge. I’m having chardonnay, not so much because I need a drink, but more because I’m hoping the oak resin will set up a Flavor Protection Perimeter between my tongue and his chili. (I also keep a secret stash of peanut-butter-filled pretzels in my desk for nights Mac cooks dinner.)
I take a deep, protective swig before continuing. “The place on Goldenmill had a Liberace bathroom.”
Before I continue, here’s where I need to apologize to everyone who’s ever prompted me to roll my eyes on HGTV. I always get so mad at the people who can’t see past the aesthetics of a place, but it turns out that’s easier said than done. Sometimes when I spot something so blatantly hideous, like fake bamboo wallpaper or one of those knit toilet-paper holders topped with a doll’s torso, I question all the homeowners’ decisions, starting with the one to buy this particular house. I mean, a tufted silk ceiling is one thing, but a sad clown painted on velvet? No.
He glances up from his simmering pot of unpleasantness. “Meaning?”
“Meaning the bathroom was mirrored everywhere, and I’m not kidding. I’m talking on the ceiling, on the back of the door, on the vanity, and on the floor. Plus there was a rounded wall, and in the curve there were about twenty long, narrow strips of mirror. Topping it all was a gigantic mirrored chandelier.”
At that point in the day, I’d had about six lattes, so I ended up needing to use that bathroom. I now know what I look like while taking a leak from fourteen different angles. I kept swinging my head around so I wouldn’t make eye contact with myself, but no luck; I was everywhere. FYI? There’s some stuff you just can’t unsee.
“Nice.” He stirs his pot, and then licks the spoon when he’s done. Did he just wince? Yeah. That bodes well. “What about the Cape Cod on Foxfield? I took the virtual tour and it seemed right up our alley.”
“They must have shot the MLS listing photos while lying on the ground or something. The bedroom ceilings were so slanted I couldn’t stand upright. A place like that would require major reconstruction.” I rub the sore spot on my forehead. I hope the sellers aren’t too mad I dented their wall with my face.
“Then maybe renovations should be an option,” he says, dumping a handful of salt into his bubbling potion. I shudder inadvertently. “If it means we get a bigger house or a better neighborhood, we should consider expanding our search to rehab properties.”
Ack, the rehab-versus-redecorate discussion. This has been our perpetual “tastes great”—versus—“less filling” argument, and it’s the biggest reason we’re still in a rental house. He’s dying to take something down to the studs, while I’m really confident in our ability only to switch outlet covers and paint trim.
Seriously, every time he says the R-word I can’t help but recall the time we bought our new chandelier for the dining room. Mac was convinced he could install it himself despite having never done so before, and even though the instruction sheet from Pottery Barn clearly stated, You should really call a professional for this; no, really, we mean it.
To his credit, he was able to manage the assembly and the mounting of the fixture. After it went up and he went to the basement to flip the breaker, I was awed by how merrily the chandelier twinkled for six whole seconds before the switch plate sparked and we lost power in half the house.
The best part was when Mac tried to get the electrician to convince me of what a good job he’d done up until the part where he almost started an electrical fire. The electrician agreed, saying that if indeed Mac had realized we had a triple rather than a double switch, he’d have done everything right. And yet as I wrote out the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar time-and-a-half check for the repair, I failed to recognize this victory.
As Chandeliergate 2008 is still a sore point around here, I don’t bring it up. Instead I say, “I thought we agreed renovations would be too troublesome. I mean, I want to put my mark on a place, but I had new paint and carpet in mind, maybe a little crown molding. Possibly some light cabinet hardware shopping.”
An oddly determined look crosses his face. “Listen, we’ve spent every Saturday for the last year watching HGTV. What they do only looks difficult. Do you know how easy it is to rehab a bathroom if you’re just swapping vanities and exchanging fixtures? Most of the work comes from the teardown, and I can swing a sledgehammer and rewire an electrical panel. The only hard part’s moving pipes, and we can outsource that to a professional.”
“You spend one high school summer working in a lumberyard and all of a sudden you’re Bob Vila?”
He wipes his hands on a dish towel and begins to ladle out our dinner. “No, I’m saying we’re capable of doing more than you’d guess.”
I mull this over while collecting napkins, spoons, and enough bread and butter to absorb the taste of our dinner. When he’s finished preparing our bowls, he sits down across from me and places his hand over my left hand. “Promise me you’ll at least consider our buying a rehab.”
I glance down at the gelatinous blob in my bowl and I cross the fingers on my right hand under the table. “If we can’t find a house that’s move-in ready, then yes, I promise.”
And I mean it. Mostly.
Yet there’s a part of me that also recalls spending a year of Sundays watching the Food Network. For all our copious research, I’m still about to eat a bowl of blue stew.
We’ve officially looked at every move-in-ready house in Abington Cambs.
Now what?
I’ve spent the past few days furiously trying to complete an overdue chapter, and the eyestrain from staring at the computer is killing me. Between the pressure of the deadline and the anxiety of not finding a house, I’m completely wound up and stressed out. I decide the best way to reward and revive myself is a long soak in the tub with a couple of chamomile tea bags over my eyes.
I’ve been in the tub for about twenty minutes when I hear an odd noise. It’s almost like. . whispering? I sit up for a second, removing the washcloth that’s keeping my tea bags in place. I pause to really listen, but then I don’t hear anything. I’m not terribly concerned, because the alarm system is set. I have it armed at all times now, ever since ORNESTEGA’s little pals flashed their gang signs at me.49
I reapply my tea bags, reposition the washcloth, and, using my foot, nudge the faucet to run enough hot water to revive my bubbles. Ah, that’s the stuff.
A few minutes later, I hear the weird sound again, but I ignore it. It’s probably just the TV downstairs. I’ve taken to leaving HGTV on twenty-four/seven. Every time Sandra Rinomato helps her Property Virgins find their first place, my hope is renewed. I mean, if people who have almost no budget can find their dream home, we’re destined to find something great, right?
Anyway, sometimes the volume goes up during commercials, especially when the Sham Wow guy’s ads run. No big deal.
I hear the odd noise a third time and that’s when I smell something akin to cologne and cigarette smoke. I pull off my jury-rigged chamomile mask, and when I do, I am faced with what appear to be two Japanese businessmen inspecting my steam shower.
I scream and then they scream and we all scream, yet with all the screaming going on in my bathroom, no one gives us any ice cream.
The screams do bring Vienna running, though. So that’s a plus.
“Ohmigod, break my eardrums, why don’t you?” She stands in my doorway, hip-slung and aggravated, clad in a sundress constructed of what appears to be a fitted yellow shower curtain, paired with four-and-a-half-inch gladiator sandals. 50 She points at the two men peering down curiously at me before returning to texting while talking. “This is Mr. Oshiro and Mr. Takamoto. I don’t know who’s who, but whatever. They’re real estate investors from Japan. They might want to buy a piece of my company.” And on cue, both gentlemen bow.
This is surreal.
“Hi, nice to meet you and welcome to my home,” I say with a nod to the men. They bow again. “Oh,Vienna? In case you failed to notice, I’m taking a bath here!”
“Yeah, I noticed.” She snickers. “I noticed your shoulders are totally fat.” Then she briefly removes her fingers from her crystalstudded cell phone and puffs her cheeks and presses her finger to her lips. This causes the Japanese men to nod appreciatively at her gesture before bowing again.
What does. .? How could. .? I’m so torn between complete rage and abject mortification I can hardly form a complete thought. I finally sputter, “I’m sorry, but are you insane? Why are you here? You’re obligated to give me two days’ notice before you let yourself in, and you know that. You’re trespassing, and technically I could have you arrested right now.”
“Doubtful,” she replies with a toss of her clip-on hair. What sucks is, she’s right. If the Chicago PD didn’t haul her in the night she drove her Bentley into all those “boring people”51 at Enclave, I imagine this is small potatoes.
I curl into myself and sink as low as I can under the bubbles. “How did you get past the alarm?” I hiss.
She begins to twirl one long, white-blond polystyrene extension. “Ugh, your stupid alarm. Pain in my ass. I had the guy cut the wires a few weeks ago because it kept going off, like, every time I came in.”
I can feel my blood boiling, and if it weren’t for my overwhelming fear of public nakedness, I’d have leaped out of the tub and throttled the bitch by now. With gritted teeth I ask, “Where are my dogs?” I suddenly have a vision of her simply opening my gate and letting my pups run free. And if that’s the case, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. I’m about to go full-on Swayze up in here.
She shrugs and bats her overly mascaraed eyes. I take great pleasure in noticing that the left one is a tiny bit wonky. “Last I saw, they were on the couch. They totally love me; all dogs do. It’s one of my, like, many gifts.”
“That’s just great. Oh, FYI? You can leave anytime now,” I suggest. “Or not, of course. Because there’s nothing at all embarrassing or inappropriate about my being nude while you conduct business with a couple of Japanese dudes. I’m sure they’re used to it, what with bathhouses being a big part of their culture.” When I thrust a soapy finger in the men’s direction, they both bow. Argh.
She doesn’t budge from her spot. “Whatevs. Listen, can you get up? The guys wanna see if the tub’s jetted.”
And now it’s time to not be nice.
I hurl my bubble bath at her. “Get out, get out, get out!” She scurries out of the line of fire as the bottle splats against the glass door, oozing big emerald green streaks. Misters Oshiro and Takamoto follow her, but not without giving me a cursory bow first.
You know what?
Maybe I could live with a little construction dust.
When I get home from today’s search, I don’t even flinch when I see Mac slaughtering twenty-two dollars’ worth of grass-fed, antibioticfree, organic beef.
I don’t worry when he tells me about the mysterious bandaged person lurking in the alley; nor do I frown52 when he informs me of Vienna’s latest antics involving a backhoe and my row of lovingly tended, winterized peony bushes.
You see, I found our house today.