Going House

If you’re thinking about buying a condo, here’s one way to do it. First, go to Harpoon Oktoberfest the night before and drink IPAs until you get that metallic taste in your mouth. Then, later on that night, get in a wedgie contest with your friend Whits and pull down your pants so onlookers can judge your boxer thongs and take pictures. Then, the next morning, go look at open houses with your girlfriend as “research” for when you actually might want to buy. Except, instead of just looking, go right ahead and buy a place that day. There you have it—from striving to inflict an Atomic Wedgie to striving to understand a 5/1 adjustable rate mortgage within 24 hours.

Prior to this, my most recent impulse-buy was a Swiffer WetJet, a purchase that taught me an important lesson about not going to Walgreens drunk. But hey, if you’ve got a Swiffer, you’re going to need a floor, and a few months ago, one of my coworkers lent me Homebuying for Dummies so I could learn the step-by-step process of buying a house. Honestly, this book was far too complicated. I barely made it past Chapter 1: “Houses: how to tell them from horses and hoses.” I guess I needed something more my speed, like Homebuying for Corky from Life Goes On.

The new crib is in Southie. A lot of people think Southie’s this gritty, slummy place because of Whitey Bulger, Good Will Hunting and minor crime problems like that fatal gang fight earlier this year. But it’s really becoming yuppified, just like every other neighborhood. Of course, it’s not completely there yet, which is why I’m buying a bunch of Celtics track suits to wear until gentrification is complete. Just kidding, Southie neighbors! Please don’t key my BMW.

I’m going to miss my next door neighbor Elmer, with his crazy-dash-filled-signs-all-over-the-laundry-room and his flypaper hanging outside the building year-round, to snag those pesky December mosquitoes. I’m going to miss Scott, with whom I’ve lived for four years, and stealing his Kiehl’s products that I’m too cheap and closeted-metrosexual to buy myself. I’m going to miss my messy bedroom, as my new roommate has expressed an opinion that an unobstructed path from the bed to the doorway does not constitute a clean room.

Speaking of which, living with a girl is something I’ve never done, either. It remains to be seen how well she fares at taming the Wild Ez, an uncivilized creature that washes all its clothes on the cold cycle, regardless of color. A hairy beast that will eat dinner with a tiny salad fork to avoid washing a big one, which are all in the dishwasher. An uncouth savage that keeps using the same Oral B toothbrush long after the blue wear indicator has signaled it’s time for a new one. Her whip hand had better be strong if that toilet seat is ever to be down.

One other thing that people have told me I’d have to prepare for is fixing problems myself. I suppose these are people who’ve had helpful landlords in the past. In my current apartment, if I have a problem, my building management company promptly dispatches someone to make the problem worse while Elmer takes the opportunity to come snoop around. Most recently, this consisted of a clogged furnace flue, and I came home one day to find my living room covered in dust, the ceiling torn up, and Elmer sitting on my couch happily watching the proceedings (thus garnering him a nomination in the Nosies, the Nosiest Neighbor in Boston awards). The job is now done, but they never got around to repairing the ceiling, so a large, exposed vent pipe now runs over the couch. I choose to look at it as industrial-chic.

Then there’s the kitchen sink, which Elmer complained made too much noise with the hot water running. So the hot-water spigot was replaced with one that’s both quieter and threaded backwards. Now, when you go to turn on the hot water, tighten the tap instead of opening it, you then have to force it open, inevitably spraying water all over yourself. It’s a great system and I’m really going to miss it.

But that’s the past. The future is next week, when I’m going to be $150,000 in debt and possibly have potpourri in my bathroom. What happened to the guy who used to get in drunken wedgie contests? Well, the new place is only two blocks away from Whits’.