My mother and I went house-browsing last weekend, a far more leisurely pursuit than house-hunting.
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In June, my home sold within a week, plunging me into the world of house-hunting or, more accurately, "house-stalking."
I was so desperate for a new house that my pulse would go into overdrive and I'd scream "Stop!" every time I saw a sign staked in a yard, even though it only said, "We use well water."
I much prefer the relaxed pace of house-browsing. My mother is toying with the idea of buying a new house, which gives her the luxury of turning up her nose at any little thing she doesn't like.
"Vinyl flooring in the kitchen?" she'll say with a sniff. "I think not."
We made the rounds of the open houses last Sunday, taking my fiance, an accomplished cook, who tags along so he can peer into other people's ovens. The first house, a fixer-upper cottage, had a battered sedan out front.
"Surely that's not the Realtor's car," my mother said.
"Can't be," I said, noting the sign out front. The listing belonged to one of Augusta's superstar Realtors who, like Cher, Madonna and Prince, is so famous she doesn't need the nuisance of a last name.
"That's the Realtor's car," I said, pointing to a gleaming beauty parked farther up the drive. We ooh and aah over the automobile, which was so impressive that if it had an eat-in kitchen my mother would have made an offer on it.
The door flung open, and instead of seeing the superstar Realtor, it was one of her many underlings, an eager young thing who directed us to the guest book and handed us the information sheet on the house.
When we saw the price, we raised our eyebrows and said, "Hmmmm" which is code for "These people are out of their skulls."
I turned to the Realtor, and instead of asking the question that was really plaguing my mind, ("What were they thinking when they chose these living-room drapes?") I asked a series of businesslike questions so she would know we were semiserious browsers instead of voyeurs looking to kill time on a Sunday afternoon.
"How old is the HVAC system? Is this property built on a slab? Are the owners color blind?"
Oops. That last question just slipped out.
Mainly, we look at houses in my mother's price range, but we also get a kick out of touring the grand, palatial homes, just in case we win the lottery.
During the open house of such homes, the superstar Realtor might even swoop in for a special guest appearance, and my mother and I strut around pretending that we can afford such a spread.
"Mumsy," I say. "Wouldn't your antique settee look positively divine in the foyer?"
My fiance, however, blows our cover by bursting in and saying, "Check out the fancy Viking range! I'll bet it's worth more than our whole house."
We slink outside, waiting until we're well out of earshot, and the sour grapes begin.
"Imagine the heating bills!" "Money certainly can't buy taste." "I wouldn't have a house that big if you paid me."
Augusta resident Karin Gillespie is the author of Bet Your Bottom Dollar. Her Web site is www.karingillespie.com.Body CopyMy mother and I went house-browsing last weekend, a far more leisurely pursuit than house-hunting.
In June, my home sold within a week, plunging me into the world of house-hunting or, more accurately, "house-stalking."
I was so desperate for a new house that my pulse would go into overdrive and I'd scream "Stop!" every time I saw a sign staked in a yard, even though it only said, "We use well water."
I much prefer the relaxed pace of house-browsing. My mother is toying with the idea of buying a new house, which gives her the luxury of turning up her nose at any little thing she doesn't like.
"Vinyl flooring in the kitchen?" she'll say with a sniff. "I think not."
We made the rounds of the open houses last Sunday, taking my fiance, an accomplished cook, who tags along so he can peer into other people's ovens. The first house, a fixer-upper cottage, had a battered sedan out front.
"Surely that's not the Realtor's car," my mother said.
"Can't be," I said, noting the sign out front. The listing belonged to one of Augusta's superstar Realtors who, like Cher, Madonna and Prince, is so famous she doesn't need the nuisance of a last name.
"That's the Realtor's car," I said, pointing to a gleaming beauty parked farther up the drive. We ooh and aah over the automobile, which was so impressive that if it had an eat-in kitchen my mother would have made an offer on it.
The door flung open, and instead of seeing the superstar Realtor, it was one of her many underlings, an eager young thing who directed us to the guest book and handed us the information sheet on the house.
When we saw the price, we raised our eyebrows and said, "Hmmmm" which is code for "These people are out of their skulls."
I turned to the Realtor, and instead of asking the question that was really plaguing my mind, ("What were they thinking when they chose these living-room drapes?") I asked a series of businesslike questions so she would know we were semiserious browsers instead of voyeurs looking to kill time on a Sunday afternoon.
"How old is the HVAC system? Is this property built on a slab? Are the owners color blind?"
Oops. That last question just slipped out.
Mainly, we look at houses in my mother's price range, but we also get a kick out of touring the grand, palatial homes, just in case we win the lottery.
During the open house of such homes, the superstar Realtor might even swoop in for a special guest appearance, and my mother and I strut around pretending that we can afford such a spread.
"Mumsy," I say. "Wouldn't your antique settee look positively divine in the foyer?"
My fiance, however, blows our cover by bursting in and saying, "Check out the fancy Viking range! I'll bet it's worth more than our whole house."
We slink outside, waiting until we're well out of earshot, and the sour grapes begin.
"Imagine the heating bills!" "Money certainly can't buy taste." "I wouldn't have a house that big if you paid me."
Augusta resident Karin Gillespie is the author of Bet Your Bottom Dollar. Her Web site is www.karingillespie.com.
