I am an Open House Addict

I am an "Open House" junkie. Oh for a fix of a fixer-upper or a tear-down, a McMansion or a cozy starter! If it's Sunday afternoon you'll find me zig-zagging through the 'hood like some Pavlovian hound, traveling so slowly, so haphazardly that my GPS is sending out an SOS. I am looking for some kind of sign, more specifically a little lawn sign that points me to the promised land -- an open house. With headlines screaming that the median price for a home in my Los Angeles County is through the roof at $600,000, I know I am not alone.

It started innocently enough, as most addictions do. I was in the market for a bargain basement home. But, finally settling down did not stop my weekend binges. At first I justified my lust for looking as a way to assuage my worry that I had squandered a perfectly good APR.

Soon nothing could curb the appeal of checking out everything from the most ramshackle ranch to estates I can't even afford to envy. Just in case an agent would discover my true mission, I carefully park my Corolla at least one zipcode away, lest I am recognized as a serial lookie-loo.

While the "exquisites" with the toxic factory of different cleaning products for every surface are lovely to look at, it's the chaotic homes that look like K-Mart blew up that are the ones that beckon me. It's amazing what you can learn from a pile of kitchen counter junk or an array of fridge door photos. And I positively jones for the ridiculously memorable... like the house completely covered in gold flecked mirrors, including, inexplicably the bathroom ceiling; the "Rusting Mustang" Ranch that had about a half dozen cars oxidizing around the yard; the 'Ebola' house where the agent handed out masks for safe viewing of the master bedroom where the previous owner expired. Apparently a room to die for or in. And a 91604 property with an “œenvironmental chamber." No whips or chains, just a sauna-like room for a personal weather atmosphere - press a button and savor everything from Hawaiian Breezes to Norwegian Arctic Blast. I so wished for an optional setting -- Putrid New York Sanitation Strike in August - a reminder of why our property values are higher than the prices at the pump.

And it's easy to spot the difference between those of us out for the sport and the real buyers. They’re the ones with the spacey look of incredulity and financial impossibility painfully etched on their faces. Meanwhile the rest of us are calculating the second mortgages needed to buy the gas to fuel our habit.

Now open house addicts like me are coming out of the closet. My neighborhood posse openly caravans around, scoffing at asking prices and per-square-foot costs. We do a lot of mind-pointing and eye-rolling and snarkily predicting, "They'll never get that!" while secretly praying to the gods of 'over asking.' We get all tingly thinking how much our homes are worth now. If only we could just sell off the den or maybe just the laundry room, we could quit working. Although if we had to buy something comparable we'd have to move so far out of town we'd be commuting from Kansas. Ah, there is no place like an affordable home.

By Stephanie Becker

• by Stephanie Becker
• Email this page
• Printer-friendly version