Newmans Own: Our family's search for a house.

Philistines at the Hedgerow

You can tell a lot about a real estate listing by its photos. And the few photographs in this listing are as enticing for what they don't show as for what they do. Namely: a kitchen. But I’m no longer daunted by kitchen renovations. In fact, after seeing so many over-the-top kitchens, like this one, I’ve actually come to prefer a kitchen we can make our own. It won’t have granite countertops or high-end appliances, but it will be comfortable and practical. In this case, we could even get a great view of a magnolia tree just outside the window.

Michael: The kitchen in the last place we liked was worth more than some houses in Detroit. But before we get there, I need to pause—as I did yesterday—on the front lawn. I was mesmerized by those two elephant-size hedges. A little boy could get lost for days in one of those things. His father could spend a month’s worth of Saturdays trimming them.

Nora: I liked the manicured lawn and hedges. They give the property a certain grandeur, making the Tudor-style house seem very English, very elegant, very expensive. Yet it’s in our price range!

The interior was equally elegant, though I didn’t necessarily feel that way walking around in my socks. (The floors had just been refinished, so we were instructed to leave our shoes at the door.) The vaulted ceiling, the wood beams, the stone fireplace—it was all very stately, and the attached sunroom was charming. I’d seen all this from the photographs, however, and was more enticed by the kitchen mystery around the corner. It looked like it hadn’t been renovated in decades.

Michael: I really like this place—it’s just different enough to be interesting, but not so different as to be impractical. Well, there was that one closet with a window. But in general, this house had well-used space—not a lot of overlong hallways or closets too big for the room. Sure, the kitchen was tiny and poorly applianced, but that’s fixed easily enough. The agent told me renovations would cost about $25,000. Or maybe it was $30,000. Either way—that was easy!

Redoing the floors was also a shrewd move. Something about newly finished floors makes a place feel shiny and clean. So the fumes were a little overpowering. But I got used to them. Also: New floors are cheaper than central air conditioning, which this house would also need. Now we’re spending more than $30,000 on renovations—but don’t worry; it’s all theoretical.

Nora: I wouldn’t be so sure about these renovations, Michael. I’ve been warned by many a friend and seen too many renovation shows to think fixing up is an easy or inexpensive task. And I have a feeling that this house needs more work than we can see in a quick walk-through. Maybe we should bring a contractor with us next time we look at a house? I’d really like to get a better sense of how much all this costs before I get my heart set.

Michael: Sure. Last but not least: After several background briefings, phone calls with anonymous sources, and predawn meetings in parking garages, our crack team of researchers has been able to learn the identity of the former owner of this house. I have jogged on the campus of her alma mater.

Nora: I would like to have met her. The fact that proceeds from the sale of the house will go to fund minority scholarships gives this place good karma. Still, just because I admire her doesn’t mean I want to live in her house.

Michael: OK. I suppose I can let this one go. But if it’s still here in a few weeks, I reserve the right to come back. This time maybe I'll bring a landscaper and get an estimate for hedge care.

Cheaper by the Dozen

Is the Perfect the Enemy of the Good?

We may have finally found a replacement for the yellow house. When I saw this house come on the market Friday, I wanted to make sure we got to see it before the open house. But this time, in an effort to elevate Michael’s enthusiasm and tamp down mine, we decided that Michael would see the place first without me (since one of us had to be home with the napping Joe) before we went to see it as a family.

Michael: I was honored: I felt like the scout sent ahead of the rest of the traveling party. Growing up, I always wanted to be an Indian scout, and when told that would be impossible, I wanted to be a plain old scout. Sad to say, seeing this house a day ahead of time may be as close as I’ll ever get. When I got there, I met the seller’s agent, and we wandered around like we didn’t own the place.

Nora: We’ve looked at quite a few houses in this neighborhood—at least five by my count, including one right around the corner that looks like its twin. I liked that house, too, though I was concerned about the lack of central A/C, the small kitchen and backyard, and the absence of a bathroom on the lower level. But that house (which was taken off the market), like this one, had very spacious bedrooms with nice views and a great main-floor layout. For one thing, the stairs don’t hit you in the face when you walk in the door.

Michael: I liked this place as soon as I reached for the handle of the screen door. I am a sucker for a wooden screen door, especially if it slams.

Nora: Funny, screen doors make me think of sleepover camp and mosquitoes. Still, when Michael got back from his scouting mission, I was even more worried: He liked the house as much as I did. So, in a role reversal, I took it upon myself to curb our enthusiasm. My objections boiled down to one: This house was too nice. OK, maybe two: It was too expensive.

Michael: That’s what the Internet says, too. And when it comes to “comps,” I trust the Internet as much as any real estate agent. Maybe more. (What is so frustrating about “comps” is that, like Iraqi WMD intelligence reports, people use them to reinforce what they already thought in the first place.)

Nora: When we all went to see the house on Sunday, I was swooning. Even the small kitchen, probably smaller than the one we have now, didn’t bother me so much—it opens into the dining room. Still, there wasn’t a whole lot of counter space, and while the expanded pantry is useful, we’d have to do some serious paring down. I may even have to throw away that box of spaghetti that’s traveled with me from Brooklyn to Manhattan to Los Angeles to D.C.

Michael: Not your ancestral spaghetti! I will part with my World Series Champions Red Sox Wheaties box (the 2007 version, not  the 2004) before I allow that to happen.

Nora: A bigger concern about the kitchen was that, in this small space, the owners have managed to cram in some serious, high-end equipment: an Asko dishwasher, a Bertazzoni chef stove, and a Fisher & Paykel refrigerator. These additions have no doubt added to the price of the house, but I’d be perfectly happy—in fact happier—with good old GE. I don’t need such a fancy kitchen.

Michael: It’s sort of a U.N. kitchen: stove from Italy, refrigerator from New Zealand, dishwasher from Sweden. (What’s that joke about the difference between heaven and hell? Oh, here it is.) Like you, I never would have bought these high-end appliances—and with the money we’d save on good old GE, we’d be able to afford an extra fridge or freezer for the basement, which we’ll need because if we live here we’ll have to do all our grocery shopping at this place. But I would request that we still get a refrigerator with an ice-cube maker. I’ve never had one of those.

Nora: I don’t know. Do you think we could tell the owners they can keep their appliances if they lower their price?

Michael: Sure. Or we could just offer a lower price. It’s not as if this is a perfect house. Besides the kitchen, for instance, there is the matter of puny upstairs closets: The current owners have basically given over most of a wall in their bedroom to shelves and hangers. Then again, as Sarah Susanka says, there is no such thing as the perfect house. There’s just a house that we like that we can afford. I don’t think there’s any doubt we like this house. The question is whether we can afford it.

Our House, in the Middle of Our Street

Nora: I think we need to lay down some rules here. First: Our house must have at least four standing walls. Second: Renovations on said house must not cost more than $50,000, depending on the asking price, and be minor enough that we can live in the house while they're being done. (Read: no asbestos-removal projects.) We can't afford to pay rent and a mortgage while we wait for that central air to be installed or for parts to be shipped in from wherever.

Michael: I prefer to think of these as goals, not rules. All other things being equal, yes, we should be biased in favor of four walls and what real estate agents call move-in-readiness. But we should also be mindful that some types of houses have historically been discriminated against.

Nora: OK, so with these "goals" in mind, I was drawn to this house, which is roughly a mile from a Metro station and in a good school district, I think. (Question: Why aren't agents required to disclose which schools are connected with addresses in their listings?) And with a list price of $575,000, it's within our budget, and interestingly, only $4,000 more than what the sellers paid for it.

Michael: The sales history is more interesting than that. Today's price is seven times—that is not a typo—what this house sold for just 10 years ago. The current owners are going to lose money. (They put in that nice new granite-countertopped kitchen! How come you haven't mentioned that yet?) But the previous two owners did pretty well for themselves. Wonder where they are now.

Nora: Michael and Denise expressed skepticism about this place even before we visited. As they both noted, its biggest flaw is that it's on a main street. But Michael: We live on an even busier street now!

Michael: But Nora: Our apartment's in the back! And at least now it's a busy street with a lot of buses. Joe has requested that we stay on a bus line.
 
Nora: I admit, driving to the open house on Sunday, I nearly got into an accident trying to pull into the driveway. Backing out was even more hair-raising. But such obstacles can be overcome, especially when the house you're pulling away from is as charming as this one.

I was won over by the quirkiness of this house's layout. In an area glutted with brick colonials, townhouses, and Capes, it's refreshing to walk into a cottage-style house with a little bit of personality. There was no center hall here, just rooms flowing into each other in a stream-of-conscious way (kind of like this blog!). And then there was that kitchen: new and spacious, with room for a table as well as a view of the yard. Granted, the countertops were granite, but I'll take it if it means I'll be in a kitchen open enough that I can feed and talk to Joe while I'm cooking.

Michael: I was wondering when you were going to mention that granite.

Nora: And how about that spacious master suite with the skylights?

Michael: Don't try to change the subject! You campaigned against granite countertops, yet now you appear ready to accept them! Did the granite lobby get to you?

Nora: Love the pun link, Michael. But let's get back to the matter at hand. I don't want this to turn into a paean to décor, but it's so hard not to fall for a house that feels so, well, homey: that wrought-iron bed, the beautiful dining table, the cool art. Of course, this is why we have stagers—and TV shows about stagers (I can't stand that show—Michael), and even an association of stagers. (Is there anyone without an association these days?) According to a recent study by that association, staged houses spend 89 percent less time on the market than nonstaged, occupied houses. Given the source, one should take this statistic with a grain of salt, but you can't dismiss the power of good taste. The reasons aren't purely psychological, either: Cosmetic changes are costly, too. Carpeting, paint, bathroom vanities, kitchen cabinets—they add up. And given our limited do-it-yourself skills, there's also the contractor, and the money we'd pay, say, eating out for a month while our kitchen's being finished. As I said, it all adds up.

Michael: I had the opposite reaction. You're right, the house was nice and homey, but it felt crowded to me. Of course, when I went to the open house, it was crowded—at one point I had to wait for another guy to come down the stairs. I think I would have liked it better if it had been empty. Also because it would then have been easier to picture how we would fit into it. And by the way:  Who says our do-it-yourself skills are limited? I look forward to the opportunity to test my skills in an environment that doesn't involve Allen wrenches and directions translated from Swedish.

Nora: I have a feeling Michael's going to focus on the drawbacks: the street, the fact that there's only one bedroom on each floor (Do we really want Joseph sleeping alone on the first floor, just steps away from the cookie jar—and oven?), the lack of grass in the backyard. (Can we replace the hot tub with a swing set?)

Michael: That's a good point about cookies and the oven. Though I'd be more worried about ice cream and the freezer.

Nora: It's just that after months of house-hunting, I'm getting tired. I just want to curl up in that wrought-iron bed and call this place—someplace—home.

Michael: Don't worry, Nora! Wherever you lay your head each night—that's home for us.

We Could Live Here—But Do We Want To?

A watercolor image in a listing: How quaint! Or is it? The devil in me wondered: Might it be an effort to cover up the truth a photograph might reveal? Or was this house so lovely it inspired a work of art? I had to see it and find out. And after I saw it, I sent Michael over for a second opinion.

Nora: While the house was not quite as sun-dappled as the painting (OK, it was a cloudy, wintry-mix kind of day), this three-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath semi-detached colonial, just a few blocks from where we live now, was indeed quaint. Its brick-and-stone exterior was inviting—maybe not put-me-in-a-painting inviting, but pleasing nonetheless.

Michael: Some guy honked at me as I was pulling in front of the house, which is on a very busy street. (You can too park on the street on Sundays, buddy!) Also, I was late, so the open house was over. Fortunately a very nice man in an overcoat, loafers, and red socks let me in to have a look. (I assume he was an agent.) Still, I was not in the best frame of mind.

Nora: Inside, there was more to please: hardwood floors, an open floor plan, and a first-floor powder room. And the kitchen, though quite small, had a decent amount of counter space (and not granite ones, either). The living room looked out to a deck and a surprisingly large backyard.

Michael: What was up with that kitchen window into the dining room? Very high. Hard to see the people eating. How is a chef supposed to make adjustments between courses to match his cuisine to the palates of his diners?

Nora: If we don't like your pancakes, we'll just have PB&J. Seriously, after I saw this place, I thought: OK, we could live here. I wasn't alone in thinking this, apparently. There was a steady crowd here, and I don't think it was enticed just by the Girl Scout cookies the agent was offering. The basement was nicely finished and opened to a patio and that nice green yard. Upstairs, the three bedrooms were definitely quaint in the other sense, which is to say small—but not intimidatingly so, and the closets were surprisingly big.

Michael: I didn't get any Girl Scout cookies. It's interesting how your view of a house for sale can change depending on whether you see it at an open house. In a way, I think open houses are inherently misleading. Either they're crowded, in which case they tend to ratchet up anxiety: Look at all these people! Do you think they'll make an offer? Is that guy measuring the blinds?? Or they are deserted, in which case, well, they tend to ratchet up a different kind of anxiety: Is there something wrong that I'm missing? Where is everybody? I feel like I'm intruding. I'm sorry, I'll go now.

But to get back to this place, Nora, I think what we both liked about it was its efficiency—there was very little wasted space. So even though the rooms were small, they made the most of what they had. It's not like there was a 20-by-20 foyer leading into a tiny living room or walk-in closets for a bedroom barely big enough for a double bed.

Nora: Also, at $624,000, this house is at the top of our price range, but we could probably swing it (Michael: What did the lender say?). Still, much as I liked it, there were, as always, drawbacks: the petite kitchen and bedrooms, but perhaps most troubling, the location. While certainly convenient to public transportation and a commercial strip that includes a beloved local bookstore, this house suffers the flip side of convenience: That brick-and-stone façade faces that aforementioned very busy street, which gets backed up with traffic during rush hour and beyond.

Michael: What does Joe do when the ball goes into the street? That's what I think about. This is usually your department!

Nora: The ball doesn't go into the street—he's not allowed to play in the front yard. He plays in the back. But my deeper concern is what a friend said to me recently: "Half a mil for a ‘regular' house is way too much, even with the benefit of being in D.C." (Of course, she lives in Philadelphia.—Michael.)  Still, half a mil plus $124,000 is definitely way too much for a house that isn't my beloved yellow one with the porch, which has literally become the gold standard.

At any rate, I had another listing on my itinerary. It didn't come with an artist's rendering, but it did have a funny tag line: "GREAT NEW PRICE---PERFECT FOR THE NEW STIMULUS BILL!!" I guess that means it's priced to sell, but at $699,000, perhaps not to us. Still, the desperate tone of the ad intrigued me. I went on my own, figuring that this one, unlike the previous one, probably won't sell in a couple of days.

The house, a spacious three-bedroom colonial, is located in a neighborhood I'm not very familiar with, but there are things about it I like: It's in a desirable school district, close to a park and a straight shot to a Metro station a couple of miles away.

The scene here was quite different from the previous open house. Not only were there no cookies, there were no people. The agent, who told me she wasn't the listing agent, was refreshingly candid. The house, she said, had been on the market for more than 100 days, and the sellers had finally been convinced to drop the price by $50,000. The implication was clear: These are motivated sellers. She also let me know that houses in this neighborhood weren't selling for what they were three or four years ago. Could this be the kind of bargain we've been reading about? Might they entertain an offer for, say, $500,000—or less, I wondered?

But wait, did we even want this house? Nice though it was—a spacious kitchen (no granite!) and a sweet screened-in side porch were among its appealing features. (But, oddly, the sellers had turned the smallest of the three bedrooms into a very large walk-in closet.) Probably not. Sensing my hesitation, the agent mentioned another house, smaller, she said, but in a more convenient location. Hmm: Michael had mentioned this very same house to me the other day. Perhaps they were onto something. I'd have to take a look ...

It's a Whole Other Country

Brokers Are From Mars, Realtors Are From Venus

There's a pattern emerging here, and I'm not sure I like it. One of us is leading with her heart; the other with his head. A good balance, yes, but I'd feel better if these roles didn't fall so neatly into gender stereotypes. Still, I should be grateful that while I'm swooning over cabinetry and floor coverings, Michael's scanning legislation for refunds and loopholes. Thanks, Michael!

Chastened by the yellow-house debacle, I'm heading into the next property with a little more rationality. Or at least I'll try. The problem is that thus far I have been able to find great places by sheer good fortune and gut instinct.

When I moved to Manhattan in 1994, I looked at exactly one apartment before taking it, a spacious two-bedroom I shared with a family friend in ultra-hip NoHo. My rent? $500 a month. (Never mind that this basement apartment was illegal.) I found my next place, a quaint top-floor one-bedroom in a Park Slope brownstone, via a flier at the local supermarket. My rent? $800 a month. The first apartment Michael and I shared, in the lovely Washington Heights section of Manhattan (or Hudson Heights, as Realtors like to call it), was a fabulous top-floor one-bedroom overlooking the Hudson with a roof deck with panoramic views of Manhattan. Our rent? $1,850 a month. I'd seen the listing on yet another flier, this time in the cafeteria of our former employer, and marched up to the complex, certain that this place was to be ours. I'm not sure we'd actually decided that we were going to live together when I handed the flier to Michael and said, "This is where we're going to live." It remains my favorite home. (Never mind that a piece of it famously fell onto the West Side Highway. Good thing we were just renters!) Things weren't quite as easy when we moved to L.A. and D.C. (I was wondering when you were going to mention that!—Michael), but more on that some other time.

Perhaps if I'd been a little less impulsive and more financially shrewd by, say, buying a small apartment in Park Slope in 1999, we'd have had enough money to buy that yellow house. (But I'm over it. Really.) As one of Michael's sisters (who owns two houses) often chides, "You guys need to get in the game!" OK, but parting with my hard-earned Bat Mitzvah money is no easy thing, especially in this economy. We're nonunion journalists who could lose our jobs at any moment. Despite what all you proud homeowners say, our savings account feels like a more cuddly security blanket than a house whose value may not hold. The asking price on my beloved yellow house was less than what the owners paid for it in 2005.

But trudge on we will. Tomorrow is Friday, the big day for new listings. Denise says she's heard whispers of a new listing in a desirable section of Silver Spring. And then there's this place, a bank foreclosure in the very convenient American University Park right here in D.C. It looks tiny and run down, and has asbestos on the exterior—can you believe they're admitting that in the listing?—but it does have a front porch and could easily be painted yellow.

In the meantime, Michael, can you look into the value of a $100 Israel bond purchased in 1983? We may have more money than we think ...