Facing the reality of real estate

When my husband and I set out to buy our first house three years ago, we were smitten with the pageantry of the bustling real estate market, and we treated our new house like a business transaction.

It was a place to live, sure, but more than that, we saw it as an actual nest — balsawood, vinyl-sided, plopped in a perfectly manicured Mount Pleasant subdivision — something we would sit on for a few years while the market ballooned some more. Maybe we'd throw a coat of paint on the walls, cobble together a few cosmetic upgrades and, we thought, ceremoniously cash out when it came time to move again.

Predictably, the market deflated. There will be no ceremony at the closing table when we sell.

That's why, when we geared up to search for our second home — this one in the Philadelphia suburbs, where we'll be moving this fall because of my husband's job as an Air Force pilot — we took a decidedly different tack: This was to be not just a house, but a home. One we would burrow into and make our very own.

Turns out, that's a much harder crusade than finding a mere investment.

Searching for perfection

Despite the cooling real estate climate, our new area remains pricey, with a housing stock packed with aging raised ranches and split- levels. Unlike Charleston, there are few options for new construction.

As we perused listings online in preparation for our whirlwind, weeklong house hunt, I balked at what I saw in photos: brightly colored carpet from wall to wall, kitchens with (refrigerators in 1970s color schemes) wood-paneled family rooms and so many layers of flowered wallpaper it made my eyes blur.

This just didn't mesh with my (admittedly rather snobby) expectations. Most importantly, the house had to have a good kitchen — in particular, I craved granite countertops and a gas stove after years of wrestling to control the heat on an electric range. Hardwood floors were preferable, but we'd be willing to tango with carpet if there were some goods underneath to be refinished.

During the hunt, I felt myself pulled between my love of fussy decorative touches and my painfully practical nature, often inside the same house.

A cool red Craftsman house, for one, had lots of promise. Even before we passed the front door, I could practically see my own furniture nestled inside its living room. But it had a crummy kitchen and a frighteningly steep, narrow staircase. I imagined myself, a prizewinning klutz, one day kerflopping down the steps with a newborn baby in my arms, and immediately nixed the house as a possibility.

At the lovely yellow Victorian flanked by a broad front porch, I cooed over the wainscoting that crept up the stairs and ringed the walls of each bedroom, and literally caressed the granite countertop in the new kitchen. But there were hardly any closets — apparently Victorian people didn't wear clothes? — and the parking situation involved locking up the cars in a dicey-looking apartment lot behind the house.

So we kept looking. We found another beauty, but that also would prove to be a false start. The owner had bought the house in the spring, gutted it and put in a whole new kitchen, refinished the hardwood floors and painted the walls a palette of tasteful neutrals. We drooled and made an offer, but he wouldn't budge — despite all indications that the house would never even appraise for what he was asking.

Again, we moved on, pushing through close to 20 houses in a single day. Many, we found, had been oversold, shamefully so, in their listing information. One house, whose listing trumpeted "mahogany cabinets" in the kitchen had a culinary aesthetic dating back to before I was born, complete with appliances to match the era. Another house, billed as "convenient to shopping," was parked at a roaring intersection.

Deals and deal-breakers

It had, by that time, become clear that we wouldn't be finding that dream house unless we won the lottery and recommenced our search in a price range closer to a million dollars.

Instead, we grappled with the question of what we could bear when it came to imperfections and improvements. Electrical towers strung with high-tension wires in the backyard? Nope. A house wedged onto an odd-shaped lot that butted up against five other backyards? Probably not. A kitchen with synthetic, drop-in flooring that makes a convincing go of looking like tile? Getting warmer. A guest bathroom with a new white vanity and a mismatched, almond-colored toilet? Sure.

My husband, to his credit, was both decisive and optimistic throughout the process. He vetoed those high-tension wires while I hemmed and hawed, and he made proclamations about how a nice spree at Home Depot could rehab even the ugliest bathroom.

But my snobbery remained. I was caught in the pages of Real Simple magazine, still holding out for perfection.

Finally, after a week spent zipping around town in our Realtor's hybrid SUV, guided from house to house by the soothing voice of its on-board navigation system, I began to see possibilities where I once saw only flaws.

We negotiated to win a house we love. It's nearly twice the size of our present house. It has my coveted granite, beautiful hardwoods through the entire house and it's in a sweet neighborhood that reminds me of the one where I grew up.

It's not flawless, of course: The garage door is ratty, peeling and begging for replacement. A sloppy coat of polyurethane on some of the floors means we'll be having them sanded down and refinished before we move in. And the mirrored closet doors in all the bedrooms need to be replaced with something a little less Studio 54. Most frighteningly, the furnace and central air conditioning are old and might go south while we live there.

But it has a brand-new roof, almost all new windows, fantastic paint colors throughout, great window treatments that we get to keep and some very nice landscaping — all things the current owners sunk big bucks into during the single year they've lived there.

It's a house where I see us entertaining friends and family, hosting holidays, eating delicious meals, curling up to do mundane things like watch TV together, and perhaps, starting a family.

And so, come October, we'll be going home — finally.

Reach Holly Auer at 937-5560 or hauer@postandcourier.com.