dreamhouse

Spring 1992

Marilyn Builds Her Dream House

    I've been living with my parents since my move from Masters Degreeland in order to save up enough money for a down payment on my own place. I figured it would be a condo since a house would probably be too much for me to handle although I really wanted a house with a yard and neighbors a little farther away than right on the other side of my wall. Anyway, I decided this spring would be the time to start seriously looking--I had somewhat of a down payment I guessed, the interest rate was still reasonably low, and I was afraid my Mom was going to hack me to pieces with an ax if I spent another season in her house.
    Every time I thought of actually making the move of starting to look, however, I broke out in a sweat. Mortgage, taxes, utilities, phone, garbage, sewer, basic cable (this is me we're talking about) bills. Not to mention I'm a real loner when it comes to shopping for my ideal whatever complete with my idiosyncracies, and in real estate you must be accompanied by an agent. I dreaded explaining to a real estate agent in a little gold blazer my taste for English country manor and the Addams Family. With an art deco kitchen. Then I remembered a high school friend whose mom is an agent (very important- a momly type won't try to rob her child's friend in order to secure a good commission). When I stopped breaking out in a sweat just thinking about owning my own place, I'd actually get in touch with her. I finally called her after I spent two solid weeks trying to find an hour to pry Mom away from TNN and our VCR to watch the latest taped episode of Northern Exposure.
    The mom agent turned out to be exclusive with an upscale neighborhood, so she recommended me to a worthy associate in my price range and said she'd put in a good word for me. She instructed me to first call a loan officer for a pre-qualified loan, which turned into the phone call from heck. I felt like I was talking to Mr. Potter from It's A Wonderful Life. I could hear her little calculator clicks over the phone suddenly stop when she asked desperately, "Are you married?" "No," I answered, refraining from the inevitable why, know somebody? "You don't have income from any other place?" she asked. No--Wait! Those Van Goghs on top of the refrigerator! I said no. She clicked a little longer, then sighed and said, "You can't do it. I'm sorry if I disappointed you. Did I disappoint you?" she asked almost hopefully. If I say no are you going to try harder, I wanted to say, but instead said I needed to know where I stood and hung up.
    I spent that evening biting off unsuspecting people's heads and occasionally bursting into tears about never having enough money to have my own place and how much I hate landlords and if this was all this was going to amount to, I could've moved into an apartment and wasted hundreds of dollars monthly years ago. (Dad pointed out that I hadn't exactly been scrimping like I should've for the past two years like HE would've. One little three week jaunt to England and I'm marked for life!) The next morning I called the mom's agent friend so she wouldn't wonder why I hadn't called. I told her about the mean old loan officer and how I would only be wasting her time. The agent, Betty, asked if the mean old loan officer had mentioned first-time homeowner's programs to help people who couldn't normally get a home get a home. I said no. By the end of the next day, her mortgage friend managed to scrape up another $15,000 worth of loan and an FHA reduced percentage form to fill out when I had a sales contract.
    By this time, Betty wanted to show me a cute house in Kennesaw. I was terrified. The pressure was on--the FHA loan money was limited and made available once a year, so if I was going to see any of it, I had to move now (the only reason there was any left period was because of the recession). And I knew it would be this ugly farfarfar from my English country dream home and I would have to take it anyway since I didn't have much money. We pulled into the driveway in the rain, and the house was a boxy little brick house with shuttered windows, a one car garage, and brick stairs leading up to the front door that was crying for a rose trellis. We went inside, and the place had been carpeted with off-white piled carpet (when she said it had new carpet, I wasn't thrilled since I wanted hardwood floors, but this looked bright and clean, and there are hardwood floors underneath if I really want to deal with hardwood floors later on). We walked into the kitchen, tucked behind the white living room and-yes! yes!--a white with black trim kitchen, the foundation for art deco. The linoleum would need to be replaced with black and white checkerboard, but merely another future project. The rest of the house is three bedrooms with the white carpet, a hot-pink bathroom (a challenge to end all challenges--the wallpaper--what was she thinking?), a half bath, a walk-in closet, a full basement (half of which is the drive-in garage), and a fenced in backyard full of oak trees and nothing else--a perfect foundation for my English garden.
    I remembered the rule about not looking too interested and never agreeing on something the same day you look especially if it's the first house you look at, so I said, "Well, I think I want this house." We agreed the asking price was pretty reasonable, and what I was really needing help in was covering the closing costs, the discount points for getting an FHA loan, warranties, etc. and Dad's opinion. When I got back to the office, Jeff and Porter turned ashen. "You're supposed to start an offer at 80% the asking price!" I pointed out that there was a depression going on, and nobody was looking to make a killing on this house. But I'm supposed to look at ten houses, they went on, why we looked for three months to a year! I pointed out they were both pretty married to a second income, one to an Ernst and Young accountant and the other to Fran Tarkenton's daughter, and just what was the price range they shopped in? I was depressed for hours until I talked to a mortgage guy on our floor who said I was doing fine, and gave me some solid advice about checking out the value and the previous owners, which I did.
    So Mom and Dad went back with me that night and liked it very much. I signed a contract and we went out for some delicious bar-b-que ribs. The following day the owners accepted the contract, and I spent the day after that finishing loan application paperwork and began the wait. I went to bed that night, thinking about how people would start thinking of me as a grown-up now that I signed a contract on a house...and then I woke up the next morning with red spots that looked suspiciously like chicken pox.

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