October 1999

When I was a single woman living the glorious life of a college undergrad, I went on my fair share of blind dates.

Next came the excitement: Could this be the one? What if he’s perfect and we wind up rocking in chairs together on the front porch someday, gray and wrinkled as can be?

Throughout the days leading up to the blind date, my mind would construct quite a few scenarios, from terrible (the guy wears high-water pants or wife-beater t-shirts and brings his mother/sister/boyfriend along) to incredible (he’s the heir to a small Microsoft fortune and is studying to become a surgeon). I’d ponder both and everything in between until the big blind-date day arrived. And when it did, the gleaming spear of reality always impaled my visions.

Not one of my blind dates was horrible, and none was Mr. Right. But it was the anticipation, the optimism of the days proceeding the big night that kept all my friends and me traveling down the dating superhighway.

Such is the same with buying a house. Eventually, I did meet someone (at work, not a blind date) who I could happily sit next to on a porch for the next 60 years. That fact gives me some hope that one day, I’ll find the perfect first home. Or at least one that isn’t in danger of being condemned or showcased in the background of an upcoming "Cops" episode.

My husband and I have spent the last six weeks completely submerged (drowning?) in the homebuyers’ parallel universe. And I keep having these flashbacks to the days of singledom, when I roamed the land of the blind daters.

First comes the proposition: Kyra, I heard of this great house I’d like to show you.

Then, the description: It’s three bedrooms, two bath, with a two-car attached garage and fireplace in the den.

Next comes the excitement: Could this be the one? What if it’s perfect and we wind up rocking in chairs together on the front porch someday, gray and wrinkled as can be?

I picture my husband and I watching television in the family room, painting the bedroom walls, hanging curtains in the living room, fixing dinner (him, not me. Remember I’m culinarily challenged). I picture it as a place to start new lives together.

But so far, no Mr. Right of Residences. The homes we’ve seen have been close at times, but all had at least one (big) negative: non-permitted additions cracked foundations, leaking roof. Our real estate agent–Kathy the Ever Patient One–says we’re learning things with each house we see and don’t like. For example, with the breath-takingly-beautiful house possessing the bad foundation, we learned to look for slated door frames, "wavy" floors and cracks along the walls. Oh, and geologic reports that label the place a "danger to all inhabitants." That’s a lovely lesson, no?

So just as I learned I needed more in a mate than someone who could catch a football, now I know I need more in a house than just big closets. Of course, those wouldn’t be so bad to have.