The Problem With House Hunters

January 31, 2012

 

You know how people on reality TV can make you marvel at the stupidity of the human race?  And yet we (or at least I) still watch.  Maybe to feel better about myself.

Anyway.

Ever-obsessed with real estate — and yet far too mentally fragile from my own basement project to watch renovation shows — I have a borderline-unhealthy, love-hate relationship with House Hunters on HGTV.  It’s like the Law & Order of reality shows — it always seems to be on when you can’t find anything else to watch.

But I need to air my grievances about the show.  Because yelling at the television alone on my couch, repeatedly, doesn’t seem to effect change.

So can we talk about these people for a minute?  The ones on the show.  On the house hunt.  The ones who say something like this:

“We’re in our early 20s, just married and living in my mom’s basement.  What we’re really looking for is a 5 bedroom, 4 bath home with at least 4 acres, a pool, top-notch finishes and a golf course view.  And a butler.  We are putting down zero percent and our budget is $65,000.”

I realize that, living within 30 miles of Manhattan, I am a victim of inflated pricing.  I’m all for a bargain — trust me — but the real estate crack pipe some of these people are smoking drives me crazy.

I especially love when these house hunters walk away from a perfectly good home option for things like the horrid paint color on the walls (because that would be tough to fix) and the dated furniture (did anyone remind them it’s not built into the floors and staying?).

But one of my all-time favorite House Hunter Crack Pipe Moments was when Bill From Pennsylvania complained that there simply wasn’t enough storage.  For his vast hat collection.  In every room, Bill was all:  “Well, I can’t fit all my hats here.”

Bill.  Bill!  Areyoukiddingme?

As far as I’m concerned, there is a special place in heaven for the realtors on this show.  I’d love to see the outtakes.  I imagine Bill’s realtor had this to say, which — sadly — ended up on the HGTV cutting room floor:

“Bill, let the motherfucking hats go.  This was the 37th house I showed you, even though viewers at home think there were only three.  That  last house?  It was a foreclosure property that far surpassed anything your budget would normally allow you to purchase.  Why not put your damn hats in the massive en-suite bathroom I showed you?  Oh wait, you didn’t like the color of the pristine marble finishes.  Fine.  We’ll go see a 38th property.  But if you mention the hats again, I’m going to drop kick you.  Liz, that goes for you too — keep Bill quiet or I’ll run you both down with the golf cart that comes with this next house.”

Something like that.  Or I might be projecting.  A little.

Maybe what the show needs is to shake up its format.  The people are annoying. And they always pick the third choice.  It’s like watching Hugh Laurie on House, knowing that the real diagnosis can’t be valid if you’re less than 50 minutes into the episode.

But I think I’ve found the solution.  House Hunters should consider joining forces with another reality show.  Hear me out — I think this might work well.  Here are a few teaser ideas:

1)  House Hunters Survivor:  You are shown houses in a group dynamic.  The moment you make any unrealistic demands {I’m looking at you, Bill} you are voted out of the real estate hunt and you will stay in your parents’ basement forever.  The last couple standing gets the house.

2)  House Hunters Intervention:  Level-headed people living in the real world sit you down and tell you that you need to put down the real estate crack pipe and get some help.  Mortgage applications are involved.  Suze Orman makes a cameo in the pilot episode.

3)  House Hunters Hard Core Pawn:   You reject aforementioned intervention and begin pawning off your worldly possessions to afford the house  you think you must have.

4)  16, Pregnant & House Hunting:  Your parents kicked you out because you got knocked up, and now you need a place to live.  Preferably within proximity to your OB.  Luckily, your BFF from study hall can come along to help.

5)  House Hoarders:  You are presented with a home that belongs to a hoarder.  If you agree to clean it out completely, you get it for free.  Everyone wins here, no?

6)  House Dance Moms:  Caught in a bidding war?  Your daughter will dress in a completely age-inappropriate manner and participate in a dance-off for your cause.  Winner takes all.

7)  House Storage Wars:  Your daughter lost the dance-off and your options are running low.  You decide to bid on a sweet storage unit and consider the real estate value of living in there for a while.  After all, these things are bigger than most Manhattan apartments.  Plus, they are climate-controlled.

8 )  Ice Loves House Hunters:  I think this is the real win, from a network pitch perspective.  At the end of your real estate rope, none other than Ice-T himself will show you some final housing options.  And he will make sure you stay within your means.

Any other suggestions before I take my ideas to HGTV?

I think they are totally going to invest in one of these golden nuggets and make it the next reality sensation.  In return, my demands are meager.  Just a new basement please.
Finding the Funny

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Baby Steps

January 26, 2012

You guys.  After 22 weeks of insanity, we have decided that the time has come to just walk away and abandon Project Pimp My Basement.

What?  Yes, of course I’m kidding.  What the hell would I write about if I didn’t have the basement chronicles?  And what would I do with my time if I didn’t have to run to Home Depot every single day?  I would be lost without my ongoing chats in the Flooring section.  Or my kids asking what time we’re going to ride in the orange cart.

So where do things stand?  I’ll put it this way.  Remember when we had some wagers placed on the original five week timeline?  If you bet on the “outrageously high” side and said, say, twelve weeks.  And then doubled it?  Well, you still might not win.

I’ll withhold photos at this stage {I’m going for the HGTV “big reveal” moment}, but I’ll tell you what we have in the works.

First, there is visible progress.  Which beats the hell out of the invisible progress that allegedly transpired for months.

There are stairs.  Which is nice.  We’re obviously going for total luxury here.  Plus, it got dicey to take our friends and family down the ladder for the “I Don’t Understand What the Hell Is Taking So Long Tour.”  Especially after a few bottles of wine.

There are lights.  Some lights.  Not all of them, but enough to see that guys are down there working.  Or just living there — I’m not sure which.  I haven’t checked the basement fridge in a while — but last time, most of the beer was gone.  {The wine stays upstairs with me.  Obviously.}

There is noise.  All day, every day.  Which makes my kids scream.  Which creates more noise.

Oh, and there are walls.  Sanded, primed and painted walls.  Which gives me hope.  And after a little war with the Benjamin Moore color wheel, I think I finally found a shade of navy for my laundry room that works.  Because the first two choices made my husband ask if Suicide Goth Den was the look I was going for.

Speaking of the laundry room, I have…wait for it…

I have two outlets staring at me.  Begging to be hooked up to — no, wed to — their soul mates, Shiny New Washer and Dryer.  {Did I mention 22 weeks?}.  And it looked promising for  awhile.  I especially enjoyed the very earnest look my contractor directed squarely at my eyes on January 16, when he said: “We will do everything we can to have those machines installed this week.” It seems by “everything we can,” he meant “notsomuch, really.”  And by “this week,” he meant “this fiscal quarter.”  It’s my fault for thinking otherwise — I should really speak his language by now.

This is all good news for Bruce, who owns the laundromat and will probably come over for Christmas Dinner after all of the time we’ve spent together these last few months.  He’s always pretty excited to get more business out of me.  I think I heard him squeal when my daughter mentioned all the painting they’re doing at pre-school — without smocks.  Come to think of it, while I was weighing in my latest pay-per-pound laundry haul (56 lbs), he turned his back to me and called his wife.  Something about pulling the trigger on that beer tour of Germany they’ve always wanted to take.  Glad to help, Bruce.

But, you know, it’s all fine.  We are learning important life skills.

Like staying grounded.  Because the sight of the red dumpster in my driveway every day and its companion piece, the port-a-john, prevents us from trying to keep up with the Joneses.

We are also improving the kids’ eye-hand coordination.  All of the work being done underfoot now causes the hundred-year-old floors on our main level to spring a nail pretty regularly.  So we get out the hammer before dinner and play Whack-a-Mole.  The Tetanus Version.

Baby steps, I guess.  Like stairs.  And semi-goth walls.  And outlets at the ready for that laundry.  Any day now.

Or so I’m told.

 

 

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The Parental Art of Speaking in Code

January 23, 2012

As my kids get older and increasingly pick up on everything I’m saying, it’s clear that I need to do a better job of speaking in code.  There are a few good reasons for this.

1)  I think it might minimize parent-child conflict.  

For example:  “Spinach” should be “green pudding.”  Or something equally enticing (suggestions welcome).

 

2)  It seems that, on occasion, my everyday vernacular could render me ineligible for Mother of the Year.  

Like when I’m driving:  “That dipshit moron driver in front of me” should be “that nice man who really should just take the bus.”

Or when I’ve had enough of someone:  “That crazy-ass judgmental psycho who won’t mind her own business about where we’re going to pre-school next year“ should be “that curious mommy who sure does ask a whole lot of  questions.”

 

3)  Then there’s Disney World.  P and I are probably going to take the kids there in March, but it’s not firmed up yet.  As we get the planning underway (I know, I’m behind), I have to stop openly invoking the WDW name in front of the kids.  From across the house, they hear a mention of Disney World, their ears perk up and they come running in, at the speed of light, with a series of questions you might expect:

“Are we going to Disney World?”  Maybe.

“Are we going today?”  No, not today.

“Tomorrow?”  No, not tomorrow.  Mommy and Daddy have to pull up a vast spreadsheet comparing the dizzying amount of WDW cryptic pricing information designed to cause seizures.  We can’t just go in there without a position on whether or not to do the Park Hopper Pass and the meal plan — are you insane?

“How many days until we go?”  Uh, I didn’t say we were going.  But if we do go, it might be in March.  Maybe.  Do you want some green pudding?

“Can we count the days until March?”  Do you want chocolate cake?  For breakfast?

See how this isn’t working?  I need some code words for WDW so two small heads don’t explode with vacation questions for the next month and a half.  I’m  considering the following alternatives as the planning process continues:

“We’ll need to pull out our summer clothes from the attic to pack for our trip to Disney the working farm co-op.”

“How long is the drive from my mom’s place to Disney the Amish Loom Museum?”

“Is it just me, or does the pricing for Disney Restoration Hardware resemble that of an additional mortgage?”

“Is dressing like a princess really happening with two year-olds at Disney the glue factory tour?”

 

Pretty smooth, right?  I think this approach will totally fool them.  As long as they don’t like the idea of vacationing at the working farm co-op, where green pudding is readily available.

Now I just have to stop saying “Florida.”   And “vacation.”  And “I don’t know if we need the damn silly Park Hopper Pass or not.” {We do, right?}

 

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Checking In

January 16, 2012

It’s funny how my social media addictions document my life.  Between the blog, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram (those fun photos on my home page) and Pinterest, there’s a lot that I put out there about myself.

And then there’s FourSquare.  All this business of checking in somewhere.  I’ve been FourSquaring for about a year and a half.  It’s way more fun when I’m in the city for something or when I’m traveling.  Who doesn’t love being the mayor of an airport terminal, even for a fleeting three minutes?  And that Starbucks mayorship?  I worked super hard for that.  Until I was ousted under the scandalous cloud of Keurig ownership.  Now some dude named AJ took my spot.  But, don’t you worry, I have my eye on him and am secretly mounting a Shock-and-Awe-style Starbucks comeback.

But, day-to-day, FourSquare basically confirms how very lame predictable I am.  In fact, as I looked at the stats, I realized it might be a little depressing.

Case in point:  My top places on FourSquare over the last six months are Starbucks (89 visits), Pure Barre (my crazy workout — 49 visits), the Y (more workouts — 16 visits), Trader Joe’s (16 visits) and a pub up the street  (9 visits, and counting — maybe 12 by the time you read this, depending on how the long weekend goes).

Hm.

Let’s dig a little deeper.

 

So, basically, my life can be reduced to the following cycle:

–Consume food and drinks.  Perhaps in excess.

–Attempt to burn resulting calories.

–Douse body with caffeine to keep going.

–Get dragged to Home Depot for endless basement renovation issues.

–Address Home Depot PTSD via retail therapy.

–{And possibly forget to check FourSquare friend requests — just noticed that.}

 

To boost my FourSquare points — and my lame factor — I could check in at other places I frequent and snag some easy mayorships.  Like the grocery store.  My car.  Pre-school.  The laundromat.  And the hole formerly known as my basement, where I stare at the future site of my laundry reunion — there’s no line of FourSquare rivals competing with me to hang out there.

But I don’t really think this is the purpose of social media.  You don’t need to know when I’m buying diapers or screaming at my contractor.  Just assume that both happen frequently.

Thanks, FourSquare.  As uplifting as this has been, I’m starting to think it’s time for me to check out.  Right after I drink coffee, eat something, work out, pour a glass of wine, eat more and then look at cabinet pulls at Home Depot.  While eating and holding a Starbucks latte.

But you already knew that.

 

 

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Pre-School is the New Ph.D.

January 12, 2012

January does not only mean that the holidays are over. It also means, if you have kids, that you have to get your head out of your ass the clouds and plan now for the next school year.

Yes, pack up your Christmas stockings or menorahs.  It’s time for 2012-2013 school registration.

First up, my son.  How is it possibly time to register him for kindergarten?  Wasn’t he just born like 20 minutes ago?  It makes me a little weepy.  Next thing you know, he’ll be off to college.  Complaining about  his roommate.  Telling me he’d rather go to Mexico for Spring Break than come home to see me.  Using my credit card at a liquor store without my knowledge.

OK, I need to pull it together.  I’m still zipping his jacket for him — he can’t get to Mexico yet.  Just kindergarten.

I’ve heard moms talk about how hard it is to see that school bus pull up in front of their house for the first day of kindergarten.  I begin to picture this very emotional milestone, and then I remember — oh wait, I will never have that moment.  Because my town does not bus kids to school.  {No, I don’t know why either.}  So my moment next September will be the usual “Get in the car, please — we’re late.  Did you hear me?  Can you please put down the toy and get in the — Hey, I’m leaving, I’ll be over here.  I’m going now.  GET IN THE CARRRRR!”

So at least that transition will be minimal.

Then, there’s pre-school registration for my daughter.  And it’s this process that may be the death of me.

I’ve hit the pre-school open house circuit around town over the last week.  And let me tell you  — it’s not pretty.

I like where my son currently goes to pre-school just fine.  When we moved here, they had a spot for him and that’s where he went.  So I didn’t have the chance to get hung up on my other options.  Now, with my daughter, I have the opportunity to look around.  Which may not have turned out to be a great idea.

Here’s the thing:  One of the reasons we moved out of my beloved Manhattan was to avoid the insanity of the private school process.  {That, and we had four people living in an apartment the size of a postage stamp.}  With the city schools, you have the competition, the wait lists, the legacy applicants, the lotteries.  On an epic level.  You’re quickly led to believe that if your two year-old doesn’t interview well and get into the “right” pre-school, it’s going to make things difficult down the road.  First, it will be tougher to get into the right elementary school later on.  And then nearly impossible to go to a top high school.  Especially after that stint in juvie or rehab.  Forget college — she will be living with you forever.  When she’s out on parole.  All because she fucked up that pre-school interview 16 years before, on that day when she hadn’t napped enough beforehand.

At least that’s how it feels.  But I may be prone to exaggeration every so often.

And that’s not to mention the expense of Manhattan’s private schools.  I mean, I wasn’t really in the mood to pay $40K for kindergarten.  I’m tight with my money like that.  Hats off to my Manhattan friends who put up with this madness and live to tell.  I just didn’t have it in me.

While I’m not being asked to shell out that kind of tuition here in Jersey, I do feel like the lotteries, the wait lists, the “Where will you be sending her next year?” thing is alive and well in the burbs.

So I dutifully went to the open houses.  Where I was quickly reminded of just how many families move here from the city.  Things got a little intense as folks asked about the 3 year-old enrollment.  Have a look.

Top Five Questions Overheard at Pre-School Open House:

1)  How are you addressing the apple juice arsenic concerns raised by Dr. Oz?

2)  How can you be really sure that each kid is washing their hands before eating?  And then again before sharing any toys?

3)  Are we able to watch the lottery process or is that done behind closed doors?

4)  Are you really serving pretzels and crackers for snack?  What about fresh fruit and vegetables?

5)  What is the term limit policy for the PTA?  Do you have a copy of the charter available?

I looked around.  Surely the ghost of Allen Funt was behind this.  Where was the hidden camera?  Because these women can’t be serious.

OK, look.  I freely admit to being a Purel-addicted, Type A mom on some issues.  I’m no picnic.  But I felt things were getting out of hand while touring Harvard the local pre-schools.  We’re talking circle time here.  Colors.  Letters and numbers.  Basic social skills.  It’s hard to screw it up too much, right?

Or am I not being Tiger Mom enough here?

I think I’m more like Sloth Mom.  I mean, I still have Christmas decorations to pack up.  Which is what I may do this week while putting off the pre-school applications.

 

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A Battle of Wills

January 8, 2012

You know what’s fun?  Arguing while you’re driving.

Now, I’m used to my kids bickering with each other or with me while I’m invariably driving them somewhere.  It’s not a picnic but it’s just part of the gig.

But the time I spent today fighting with a GPS system was beyond my limits.

I was off to a friend’s baby shower in Brooklyn.  Not a very long drive, mileage-wise.  And I’m very comfortable driving in the city.  But I hadn’t been to her particular neck of the woods before and needed some specific directions.

If only there was a device for such a thing.

Normally, I’d drive my car and use OnStar.  But today I took my husband’s car.  Because it’s 1) older (we’ll care less if I dent it while parallel parking) and 2) smaller and easier to maneuver (I may or may not get my urban road rage on when I cross the New York state line).

But.  His car has no navigation system.  Except for the old portable Garmin.  But hey, I figured, its job is to give directions.

Or not.

Its job, apparently, is to get all passive aggressive and argue with me.

It’s evident that the GPS has a preferred route in its head.  What’s not clear is how this preferred route is established as the front-runner.  But my guess is that it’s the closest way by how the crow flies.  It certainly doesn’t account for likelihood of traffic.  Or the use of major highways above side roads.  Or logic in general.

Fine.  She has her route and I have mine.  But once I deviate from her route, why can’t she accept the socially mandated terms of the client-vendor relationship?  Wherein, I paid for this thing — I’m the client.  I want to go a different route — do your job and stop trying to put me back on your road.

It was like an escalating battle of wills.

“In .5 miles, turn right onto Garden State Parkway.”

“The Garden State Parkway?  Is she actually trying to steer me toward the Holland Tunnel?  No, I’m going through Staten Island.”

I skip her turn.

She huffs.  “Recalculating.  In 2.2 miles, turn right toward the Garden State Parkway.”

“Not doing it.  I’ve made this mistake before.  I’ll sit for an hour out of the tunnel.”

I persist and skip her turn again.  It’s at this point, I feel that — absent my gross miscalculation of heading toward Canada — she should take the hint and give me the directions to the other route.  The better route.

The huffing seems to escalate.  It’s like she’s whining and growing impatient, as if she has somewhere else to be.  Or someone else to misdirect.  “Recalculating.  In 5 miles, turn right toward the Garden State Parkway.”

“Ohmygod, woman.  Seriously?  How did you even get this job?”

Now my two year-old chimes in from the back seat:  “Mommy.  I think she wants you to turn right.”

“Yeah, well, she has no idea that if we take the Holland Tunnel, we will be stuck on Canal Street until your third birthday.”  I then mumble something about this dipshit having no concept of traffic suicide.

“Oh.  Can we hear This Old Man on the CD?”

“We just listened to it 17 times, honey.”

“Again, please — This Old Man,” she pleads.

And then more huffing from the Garmin:  “Recalculating.”  I was pretty convinced, at this point, she was going to try to drive me off the Verrazano Bridge out of spite.

Between the toddler songs and the estrogen navigation standoff, I was never so happy to get to a baby shower in my life.

Until I had to go home.  My bitchy nemesis was waiting for me in the car.  She learned nothing while I was at the party.

Next time, I follow the direction of the sun.

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Twitching in 2012

January 4, 2012

Happy 2012, everyone!

Personally, I’m very happy to be in an even-numbered year again.  It’s just one of those things — odd numbers make me uneasy.  And prime numbers downright scare me {I’m looking at you, 2011}.  So, welcome, you beautifully even and divisible-by-much 2012.

And yet, I have been a little twitchy since we rang in the new year.  More than a little perhaps.  And I attribute this to two primary causes.

 

Twitchy Cause #1:  My blog was hacked on New Year’s Day.

Nothing really says Happy New Year like being locked out of your own site.  At first, I thought it was some kind of bizarro, Y2K-ish fluke.  I would go to log into my blog and it didn’t recognize my info.  Username.  Password.  Email address.  Nothing.

Did you ever have one of those moments — in school or at your job — when you typed up a long piece of work and then lost it before it was saved?  That internal {or external} scream.  I  kind of felt like that.  Times four million.

Ever the vigilante, I took matters into my own hands.  I turned to Facebook and offered Fordeville Blog Hacker Amnesty, which proved strangely unsuccessful.  I thought social media was a powerful tool, but now I’m not so sure.

So, I turned to professionals.  No, not those professionals.  Geeks before thugs, my friends — even in New Jersey.  I called my web hosting company and tried to muffle my sobs of despair.  And they were total rock stars.  They detected some malicious files placed on my site.  Files that, when I googled them, had all kinds of horrific tales from affected bloggers calling this malicious code “pure evil” and “a nightmare to eradicate.”  Great.  I had visions of my site redirecting to penile implant and bulk prescription drug sale ads.  Or worse — Lady Antebellum or Katy Perry fan pages.

I was twitching.  Who had control of my site?  Was it a Russian gang?  A nerdy teenager in his parents’ basement set up like NASA?  Or a mean-spirited blogger who really wanted my espresso martini recipe?  There was no way to know.

But the folks at Liquid Web fixed the problem, and all is back to normal now.  At least it seems.  Unless you are seeing a big photo of Lady Antebellum right now.  Or their music is playing upon entering my site — with no mute button.  If so, please alert me immediately and I’ll get you the far less offensive penile implant ad instead.

 

Twitchy Cause #2:  The Keurig arrived.

As requested, I got my new Keurig.  Wow.  It’s magnificently easy. Too easy, methinks.  Because, people, I’ve averaged about six cups a day since this device entered my home.  From the Desk of Captain Obvious:  This may be the real reason I’ve been twitching.

Also, I think I’m boring a hole through my stomach lining, one k-cup at a time.  In my unprofessional medical opinion, this ulceration can be alleviated by drinking frothed milk.  Right?  Good.  Because my mother, fearing the societal consequences of my Starbucks withdrawal, bought me the companion Keurig Milk Frother to enable my latte addiction in the comfort of my own home.  Which is pretty amazing.  Now I can be all skim-latte-but-no-foam-high-maintenance without getting dirty looks in public.  You rock, Mom.

And look what arrived today.  These should get me through the rest of the week.

I will say one negative thing about the Keurig, though.  In what I’d call a shortcoming of epic proportions, this thing doesn’t make very hot coffee. Really.  I mean, it’s hot.  Ish.  But once you add milk, it goes to lukewarm in an instant.  If I were manufacturing a coffee machine, one of the first things I might check is the temperature of the coffee.  But that’s just me, I guess — high maintenance and all.  Nothing a microwave can’t fix, but seems silly.

But don’t listen to me.  My brain is on caffeine overload and online criminal chasing highs.  I’m off to a twitchy start in 2012.

And I think wine seems like the logical antidote.

 

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Food & Drink, Tech Bits, That Which Drives Me Crazy 8 Comments