Home coming

As regular readers know, Stella recently moved out of the little gem of a house in D.C. that once contained a delightful garden. (And thank you, dear readers, for your outpouring of garden grief sympathy.)

I set out on my home-seeking journey for a one-bedroom condo with a set of very precise criteria: price range; location – must be in a neighborhood I love and blocks from metro; outside space such as a patio or balcony; not a fixer-upper; storage etc. And I was open to older buildings or new condos.

I was extensive in my research and spent several Sundays seeing practically every open house in the 20009 zip code—thanks to a friend with a scooter. It was fascinating and horrifying.

When we sold 12th Place, our exceptional realtor (you know who you are) helped us stage the house, which had already been repainted, with new kitchen counters and stove, and upgraded fixtures in the bathrooms. But that was only the beginning.

Under the direction of the professional eye it was taken to a whole new level of Crate & Barrell-style modeling. Every closet was purged, cleaned, and organized; every bookshelf perfectly arranged with tchotchkes banished; the orange slipcovers of the sofa replaced with “natural,” and shiny cream carpet installed. Everything was neutralized; cream, white, and beige dominated the new landscape. Finally, my art was rearranged and occasionally stored away, while black and white Ansel Adams lilies appeared along with a French cognac poster. A new sofa was loaned for downstairs and pretty lamps added even more light. Plants were pruned back and every identifiable fault in the house, from leaky faucets to missing floor tiles, was fixed.

And it looked fabulous. Fabulous in a soulless, corporate, middle class kind of way. But clean, airy, bright. Everyone’s dream home—or at least a home in which they could imagine creating their dream. And we received the only and winning offer the day after the open house. The magic worked—and given the preponderance of home shows, you know that staging methodology is not a secret, nor is it rocket science…so how come it’s not universal?

On my quest for a new home I saw everything from the over-staged, to the perfectly staged to homes where apparently neither the realtor nor the seller could be bothered to do anything in spite of the tight market conditions.

The overstaging is prevalent among gay men realtors—D.C. is a city where what I call “gay baroque,” and what a gay male friend calls “high queen,” dominates. So, dramatic vases of bamboo or a dozen shams and cushions would appear where less would have been more. But still—those places were polished if over-decorated.

Then there were lots of straight guy apartments. Single guys buy properties that women would not. They might be in good condition, but they would be the dark English basement or strange duplex, where overall the square footage was not bad, but the useable space was minimal. Or the bedroom was fantastic but you couldn’t get a dining table in the living space. Or it had a spectacular patio but the washer dryer was in the bedroom.

The worst was a 500 sq foot condo with a massive, and I mean ginormous, flat screen TV. The realtor announced boastingly that it conveyed with the condo. But why would you want a TV that takes up the wall? And what urban male has net curtains in the bedroom? Not in a kitsch, homesteading way, but in a can’t be bothered to take down what the previous old lady owner had up way.

It was after these traumatizing experiences that I made an offer on a place that I would later withdraw. It was so superior in just being a sensible one-bedroom condo with a balcony and great storage at a good price…that I overlooked the fact that it was essentially a suburban condo built in the city.

But then it gnawed at me. It didn’t feel right. The building was called The Fedora for god’s sake.

And it was built by a suburban homebuilder. Maybe if I hadn’t gone in the communal club room I would have been ok. But the dried flowers were getting to me.

I know I wouldn’t have to have dried flowers…but the fact that a guy who liked dry flowers and sconces owned the apartment didn’t make me feel good. These were not my people. This was not my place.

And so, I said a painful good bye to the Fedora. To the really good deal condo with aparking space and balcony and everything that was nearly perfect, and yet it wasn’t. Slowly my right brain took control and rejected the 97/100 rating my left brain had given. It turns out that one can be suburban in the city. Just say no.

10 responses to “Home coming”

  1. Jeremy says:

    The Fedora! That is awesome… (are you sure that isn’t its stage/d name?)

  2. Tim says:

    Can you imagine living in a hat? I guess if I *had* to live in a hat, a fedora would be a good option. Or a panama. Perhaps a fez. Beret, maybe?

    I hope there’s a post on its way with some of the lovely pics you showed Jen and me of the place you *did* get.

  3. Stella says:

    Thank you Tim and Jeremy for reassuring me I did not kill the blog.

    yes, the future holds images of the new home.

  4. jeremy says:

    yeah, why are the comments so scarce on fridays? this seems like such a universal experience, too; i believe jung called it the archetypal quest to find a non-“straight guy” apartment…

  5. But why would you want to put a dining table in the living room?

  6. trixie says:

    living space, TMK.
    you are showcasing your straight-guy-ness.

  7. Kate the Great says:

    But I don’t get it either. Even if it looks suburban with the dried flowers and the crooked pictures, who says you can’t replace the dried flowers with bright orange pots of delphiniums or whatever you want when you move in? It’s communal after all, right?

  8. PB says:

    Dear Stella, as always I love your crisp and yet so descriptive writing. With such fabulous pictures!

    Athough I must clarify one thing – forgive me, I can’t help it . . .

    Crate & Barrell-style modeling. Every closet was purged, cleaned, and organized; every bookshelf perfectly arranged with tchotchkes banished; the orange slipcovers of the sofa replaced with “natural,” and shiny cream carpet installed. Everything was neutralized; cream, white, and beige dominated the new landscape.

    C&B style can include color. I will take you shopping to said store when we are together some day . . . and you will see, orange is so OK.

  9. Dave says:

    Sorry for not commenting, Stella. I had Friday off and spent the day wandering Manhattan looking for art. It turns out there’s a whole world out there when you turn off the internet.

    I hadn’t known your first condo pick was in a building called the Fedora. Blech.

  10. Stella says:

    Pandora…sorry for grabbing C&B as the catch-all for retail displays. Yes, take me shopping and show me color.