My generation doesn't understand the idea of a dream home because they can easily afford one in their 20s. Houses today are cheaper if you build them, so most people choose to move to the suburbs and happily pick their tile color and carpet pile and relax in a brand new home. I don't begrudge them this. Sometimes, especially when our kitchen drawers stick, I envy this. Shiny new houses with nothing to restore, repaint, re-imagine or renovate.
Most of our friends live in homes like these and I feel like Belle in Beauty and the Beast as I twirl around their living rooms and race my fingers across the granite in their kitchens. Their drawers are on wheels and silently close. Their laundry rooms aren't in the garage but near the bedrooms and decorated with beadboard. The ceilings are 12 feet tall, the hardwood floors don't creak and the landscaping is picturesque, if not identical to the houses on either side. They aren't spending Saturdays going to Lowes for three prong adapters or caulking for the tub.
Our house is not by any definition a dream home. Perhaps some would call it a true starter home. Jim purchased it upon moving back from L.A., wanting an old home with character, and made the big, ugly, necessary updates like a new fence, roof and driveway. Since my arrival, I've made all the fun updates, like new paint, new artwork and renovating the kitchen and living room. To call our house charming is an understatement. Especially if charming means lots of imperfections and a tad on the small side. But it's built from a decade that used quality materials like the numerous exposed cedar beams, the hardwood floors, the crown moulding, the copper wiring and the stone fireplace. I prefer houses like this. And more than that, I like being surrounded by houses that look nothing like mine.
Recently, through a series of coercion tactics, I forced our neighbors to be friends with us. For years I watched them play with their kid in the backyard, saw them drive by on the way to work, and passed by their house every evening during our walks to the park. They were elusive and cool, tattoos and funky clothes, Obama signs in their yard, and they recycled (liquor bottles mostly). They had to be mine. My husband found this a waste of time. They seemed cool from afar, he agreed, but we had plenty of friends. And, from what I saw through our infrared goggles on Saturday nights, they did too.
But, sneaky, persistant, scrappy me, thought that our lives would be enriched by these hipsters and perhaps, just perhaps, we could enrich theirs in return. I tried fence flirting with them. When their dogs were out, I would let ours out and see if they would take the bait. Sometimes I would catch the husband by the fence, word vomit all over him, and slunk back into the house. I tried the laid back approach: nodding instead of waving as they drove by. Then I got creepy. I did a series of Google searches I'm not proud of to unearth their last names and then tracked them down on facebook. A few months later when the wife of the couple "liked" one of my status updates, I knew it was hook, line and sinker.
The time from her liking my update to now, has been about a year. She gave birth to their second daughter 10 weeks before I had Lowery. We spend many weekends together, email worthy YouTube clips to each other and their older daughter, who I once watched from afar, now gives me hugs and kisses. The wife and I talk at the fence with our babies on our hips at the end of a long day. The husbands go out for beer and comic books. The children play at our feet. For the amount of work it took to convince them to befriend us, the relationship has been comfortable and easy.
I say this not as means of patting myself on the back for forcing unwilling strangers to eat dinner with us. And not because I want you to fear that I will do the same to you; hunt you down like prey until you play dead and I bat your head around for fun. I say it because in my quest to make these strangers our friends, I was only partly aware of what I was truly doing. I thought they seemed interesting, funny maybe, and the geographical proximity certainly had appeal. Plus, it's hard to find liberals around these parts.
But what ended up transpiring was a surprisingly true friendship. Whether we get babysitters and go out for drinks, or round up our children in the backyard for fun in the sprinkler, we benefit the most from understanding each other's space in the world. We can bitch about our other neighbors' barking dogs, lament about parenting, complain about the political climate of our state or continually question why contractors in the 1950's did the things they did to our homes. I thought I just wanted new friends. But what we got was a reason to ignore the things we hate about our house. And, if we're lucky, we might be engaged with them in a game of real estate chicken.
We live in a time that forgets other times had value, and purpose and forethought. The lack of three prong outlets in the house was only because they didn't exist back then. But currently, it keeps us from having computers and electronics in every room. In fact, we only own one TV. The layout is not "open concept" which is the inexplicable Holy Grail of modern real estate, but we've learned that if you put up a baby gate between the hall and the living room, it creates the perfect contained place for our child to roam safely. The ceilings aren't high, which makes the house easier to cool. The bathrooms are small, making less to clean. And the price is right. For though we often wish for fancier doorknobs and prettier light fixtures, we will pay off this house in the next two years.
I had my first kiss with Jim in this house. Was proposed to on my birthday in this house. Conceived our first child in this house (don't over think this), went into labor in this house and will soon watch our child take her first steps in this house. So why do I care so much that we don't have natural stone countertops, or rolling drawers? Why do I care if there are fresh flowers on the kitchen table or the lawn is cut? Why do I care about pillows and picture frames and why do I truly want (yes I know) the carpet to match the drapes?
I guess I care because this house is the backdrop to a life unfolding.
It's not perfection. If it were, we'd have a claw foot tub with a pop up flat screen TV that only plays Will and Grace reruns. We'd have a large walk in shower with two shower heads (don't over think this). We'd have energy efficient windows, we'd have a wine fridge in the bedroom and the entire house--not just the oven--would be self cleaning. We complain that there's not enough book storage. That the laundry room is outside in the garage. That there are not enough bedrooms. That the bathroom is outdated and there's no butler's pantry. But then we stop and think: maybe we have too many books, too many clothes to launder, no one is actually staying over that often, the shower still gets us clean and we don't technically have a butler. To have perfection would imply that we picked or built a home to fit our lives. Right now, I like making our lives, or at least watching how our lives, fit into this home. This home, this beautifully flawed home, which is one block from a movie theatre, a mall, and a grocery store. Close to every major highway. Across the street from the campus I work at and attend school. Up the street from one of the top elementary schools in the district. A street away from a spacious park that my child loves, and right next door to our next door neighbors.
Somebody pinch me.
Most of our friends live in homes like these and I feel like Belle in Beauty and the Beast as I twirl around their living rooms and race my fingers across the granite in their kitchens. Their drawers are on wheels and silently close. Their laundry rooms aren't in the garage but near the bedrooms and decorated with beadboard. The ceilings are 12 feet tall, the hardwood floors don't creak and the landscaping is picturesque, if not identical to the houses on either side. They aren't spending Saturdays going to Lowes for three prong adapters or caulking for the tub.
Our house is not by any definition a dream home. Perhaps some would call it a true starter home. Jim purchased it upon moving back from L.A., wanting an old home with character, and made the big, ugly, necessary updates like a new fence, roof and driveway. Since my arrival, I've made all the fun updates, like new paint, new artwork and renovating the kitchen and living room. To call our house charming is an understatement. Especially if charming means lots of imperfections and a tad on the small side. But it's built from a decade that used quality materials like the numerous exposed cedar beams, the hardwood floors, the crown moulding, the copper wiring and the stone fireplace. I prefer houses like this. And more than that, I like being surrounded by houses that look nothing like mine.
Recently, through a series of coercion tactics, I forced our neighbors to be friends with us. For years I watched them play with their kid in the backyard, saw them drive by on the way to work, and passed by their house every evening during our walks to the park. They were elusive and cool, tattoos and funky clothes, Obama signs in their yard, and they recycled (liquor bottles mostly). They had to be mine. My husband found this a waste of time. They seemed cool from afar, he agreed, but we had plenty of friends. And, from what I saw through our infrared goggles on Saturday nights, they did too.
But, sneaky, persistant, scrappy me, thought that our lives would be enriched by these hipsters and perhaps, just perhaps, we could enrich theirs in return. I tried fence flirting with them. When their dogs were out, I would let ours out and see if they would take the bait. Sometimes I would catch the husband by the fence, word vomit all over him, and slunk back into the house. I tried the laid back approach: nodding instead of waving as they drove by. Then I got creepy. I did a series of Google searches I'm not proud of to unearth their last names and then tracked them down on facebook. A few months later when the wife of the couple "liked" one of my status updates, I knew it was hook, line and sinker.
The time from her liking my update to now, has been about a year. She gave birth to their second daughter 10 weeks before I had Lowery. We spend many weekends together, email worthy YouTube clips to each other and their older daughter, who I once watched from afar, now gives me hugs and kisses. The wife and I talk at the fence with our babies on our hips at the end of a long day. The husbands go out for beer and comic books. The children play at our feet. For the amount of work it took to convince them to befriend us, the relationship has been comfortable and easy.
I say this not as means of patting myself on the back for forcing unwilling strangers to eat dinner with us. And not because I want you to fear that I will do the same to you; hunt you down like prey until you play dead and I bat your head around for fun. I say it because in my quest to make these strangers our friends, I was only partly aware of what I was truly doing. I thought they seemed interesting, funny maybe, and the geographical proximity certainly had appeal. Plus, it's hard to find liberals around these parts.
But what ended up transpiring was a surprisingly true friendship. Whether we get babysitters and go out for drinks, or round up our children in the backyard for fun in the sprinkler, we benefit the most from understanding each other's space in the world. We can bitch about our other neighbors' barking dogs, lament about parenting, complain about the political climate of our state or continually question why contractors in the 1950's did the things they did to our homes. I thought I just wanted new friends. But what we got was a reason to ignore the things we hate about our house. And, if we're lucky, we might be engaged with them in a game of real estate chicken.
We live in a time that forgets other times had value, and purpose and forethought. The lack of three prong outlets in the house was only because they didn't exist back then. But currently, it keeps us from having computers and electronics in every room. In fact, we only own one TV. The layout is not "open concept" which is the inexplicable Holy Grail of modern real estate, but we've learned that if you put up a baby gate between the hall and the living room, it creates the perfect contained place for our child to roam safely. The ceilings aren't high, which makes the house easier to cool. The bathrooms are small, making less to clean. And the price is right. For though we often wish for fancier doorknobs and prettier light fixtures, we will pay off this house in the next two years.
I had my first kiss with Jim in this house. Was proposed to on my birthday in this house. Conceived our first child in this house (don't over think this), went into labor in this house and will soon watch our child take her first steps in this house. So why do I care so much that we don't have natural stone countertops, or rolling drawers? Why do I care if there are fresh flowers on the kitchen table or the lawn is cut? Why do I care about pillows and picture frames and why do I truly want (yes I know) the carpet to match the drapes?
I guess I care because this house is the backdrop to a life unfolding.
It's not perfection. If it were, we'd have a claw foot tub with a pop up flat screen TV that only plays Will and Grace reruns. We'd have a large walk in shower with two shower heads (don't over think this). We'd have energy efficient windows, we'd have a wine fridge in the bedroom and the entire house--not just the oven--would be self cleaning. We complain that there's not enough book storage. That the laundry room is outside in the garage. That there are not enough bedrooms. That the bathroom is outdated and there's no butler's pantry. But then we stop and think: maybe we have too many books, too many clothes to launder, no one is actually staying over that often, the shower still gets us clean and we don't technically have a butler. To have perfection would imply that we picked or built a home to fit our lives. Right now, I like making our lives, or at least watching how our lives, fit into this home. This home, this beautifully flawed home, which is one block from a movie theatre, a mall, and a grocery store. Close to every major highway. Across the street from the campus I work at and attend school. Up the street from one of the top elementary schools in the district. A street away from a spacious park that my child loves, and right next door to our next door neighbors.
Somebody pinch me.
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