Kito and I have begun the transition from tenants to homeowners. The lease on our current apartment expires at the end of April, and we figured it was a good time to buy a place of our own. So we got ourselves a realtor and got ourselves "pre-approved" for a mortgage.
Every few days, the realtor, Tabitha, emails us a batch of property profile pages containing photos and stats and such. We look them over and indicate in a little box whether we are "Interested," "Not Interested," or "Maybe Interested." This part of the process is sort of fun because it's similar to rating photos on that Hot or Not site that was briefly popular in the Internet's pre-Facebook days.
Tabitha then sets up showings at properties in which we have indicated an interest. During a showing, the three of us traipse through some stranger's home, and Kito and I try to imagine ourselves living there. Sometimes it's hard not to get distracted by the current owner's decor. At the second place we toured, for instance, there was a large painting of an erect penis with a crucifix dangling from its shaft. I was supposed to be thinking about square footage and where to put the dining room table, but all I could think about was how if I owned that painting I'd have to take it down every time my mother came to visit because an erect cock is bad enough, but a Catholic one is unthinkable.
Generally, it's easier to find reasons for excluding a place than reasons for keeping it in the running. Ideally, I want a home that's vintage but modernized but not too modernized, with a small office and lots of sunlight and fixtures that don't look chintzy. I'd like the floors and cabinetry to feel sturdy, and I'd like for the overall vibe to feel inviting and interesting, and, basically, I'd like for the place to make me happy and solve all my problems and convince me that everything is going to be okay. And it should be close to the el.
I'll know it when I see it.
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