At a Saturday-night dinner party on Queen Anne a couple of months ago, my friend Nancy offered to help me look for a house. I said that I needed to believe I could find it on my own.
“It’s difficult to find the right house, but when you do, you’ll know.”
“Will it say my name over the door?” I teased.
“Something like that.” We laughed. “But you will know. But first, you’ll likely get a really good feel for what you don’t want.”
“And if I don’t know exactly what I want, will I still know?”
I said that, but I didn’t believe it. I remember feeling as though I knew exactly what I was looking for. And that it would be easy to find, right in front of me, surrounded by lovely hedges.
Having said that, you would think I had found a house by now. But the truth is quite the opposite.
Looking for ‘ all the wonderful’
The hunt started off wonderfully, but then, was Nancy ever right. Because, day by day, it became more about all the places I could never imagine living in, which began to feel more overwhelming than anything.
Especially as it became increasingly clear how many hidden obstacles there are, like mold and tiny cracks in the foundation. And the more obvious ones, too, like funky linoleum floors and avocado-colored appliances (the old avocado), rugs that smell of cigarette smoke and noisy neighbors, because I can hear them.
There are front steps you can fall through if you don’t hang on to the railing.
There are porch slats so thin the weeds grow right through. And though I never take my Larry shopping with me, I swore I could hear him yelling, “No! Those weeds work like a ratchet! They only grow in one direction until the whole thing collapses!”
Still, I poured myself into the search. I made notes.
My Realtor would suggest another place, and off we’d go. She also advised practical things like vinyl siding, fireplace inserts and God-knows-what, and I’d say mushy things like how wood flooring would “make me so happy” and lavender bushes “would bring such joy to my heart.”
Also, a front porch where I can sit “and take in all the wonderful” at the end of the day, while sipping a glass of dry, white wine.
She kindly does not point out that my expectations don’t match my finances. But she has started to add places with no backyard to speak of, even though I told her how much I need one “emotionally” because I’ve been on the other side of city living for too long.
And I should have known better than to believe we were headed in the right direction, because suddenly we were on the freeway bypassing everything I love about inner-Seattle and headed north, way north, beyond Northgate, into suburban north.
Was she trying to humor me?
But the last straw was when we drove right up to yet another yellow, green and orange revitalization-condo on Pill Hill, an intersection where two major hospitals come together in several medically detached blocks off East Madison Street, and I was shaking my head before we even got out of the car.
She looked at me, and I think I can safely say that what I sensed in her 30-something eyes were these very words: This is where a woman of your age and means belongs!
Back home
It occurs to me to take a temporary break from house-hunting altogether. I want to stop before my love for a home I have not even found turns into despair, which is where love often heads when the pressure mounts.
In any event, suddenly my little Belltown condo feels homey, dry, good, warm and, why, not at all as bad as I once believed.
And though I haven’t yet found the house or the yard, I know that eventually I will, just as Nancy promised.
And when I do, I’ll likely say something even more mushy and embarrassing like, “Here is where my heart belongs!”
But at least I’ll know my search is over.
MARY LOU SANELLI’s latest book is “Among Friends.” Visit her website: www.marylousanelli.com. To comment on this column, write to QAMagNews@nwlink.com.