I reticently admit that one of my guilty pleasures is scrolling mindlessly through TikTok. My For You page treats me to videos on fashion, food, WW (formerly known as Weight Watchers) tips and tricks, and the latest news. I also subscribe to videos made by dancers, musicians, and artists. Every now and then I see videos from content creators who have TikTok shops. And every now and then I succumb to some cool gadget that I am told will change my life. Okay, twice. Twice now, I have made a TikTok Shop purchase. And twice I have been scammed.
The first was a weighted fitness hoop. I imagined myself confidently swinging my hips as a heavy ball, hooked to a ring around my waist, flew around and around. I envisioned effortlessly and joyously participating in regular cardiovascular exercise (something that I typically do only in fits and spurts and most often with a grimace). The brand-name model was purportedly well-made, with links that I could remove as my waist whittled down to a shadow of its former self in just thirty minutes a day. What I got, however, was a cheaply made imitation (for the exact same price, mind you), with a flimsy plastic ball that required me to fill it with sand. I left it in the plastic wrapper, shoved it in a tote bag, and donated it to Goodwill two years later.
The second was an eye cream, designed to eliminate the perpetual luggage from under my eyes. I’m sure you know the brand. It’s so popular that it is sold out of nearly every beauty store. So I should have been wary when ordering it off social media. A month after shelling out my hard-earned money, a bag showed up in my mailbox with a return address issued to someone named “Jason.” Still, I couldn’t wait for the miraculous results and, perplexed after three unsuccessful uses, I examined the product packaging. A complete fake. Nothing but a tinted cream.
House hunting turned out to be a similar experience.
The photos appearing on our realtors’ site made the homes in our price range seem glamorous, huge, and outfitted with the latest appliances. I would favorite one after another and send a long list of possibilities for potential viewings. Our real estate agents, both of whom we adored, patiently drove us from one house to another.
At least fifty times.
Many were clearly shot with wide-angle lenses. The lawns, which promised to be expansive, were not much bigger than a postage stamp. Several nearly sat atop the busy road on which they were located. One appeared to be a holdout, nested in a sea of motels-turned-long-term-living-options.
Those same lenses were used inside as well. What looked like big, airy, sun-filled rooms, were small, dark, and cramped—sometimes bearing stained carpet or torn linoleum. The listings omitted the cracks in the walls, the spongy floors, the loud plumbing, the Dobermans that barked incessantly next door.
I became utterly disillusioned during our four-month search for a new house. Initially, I thought we had a pretty good budget. I soon learned that the housing market had changed drastically since the last time I’d purchased a home myself, which, okay…was 1991. Early in the process I would be filled with hope and excitement to see the chosen prospects. But as the days wore into weeks and then months, I became grouchy and bitter and inconsolable. We needed to stick to our budget and house flippers had skewed the market.
I took to calling the process “putting lipstick on a pig.” Investors are buying up rundown, older homes and instead of attending to the structural work needed, they slap on a coat of gray paint, add some faux marble countertops, dented stainless steel appliances procured at the local discount store, and some fancy black ceiling fans and a farmhouse sink for good measure. These slapdash efforts have resulted in skyrocketing prices, often for houses that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
Now, we did find a few homes we really fell in love with. Older houses with good bones, flipped or not, that had the kind of character we were looking for. The first was a 100-year-old cottage with three outbuildings—perfect for woodworking, a potting shed, and our artistic endeavors. Yet it needed some work, and the owners weren’t willing to either make the changes or come down on the price enough so that we could do so ourselves. In the end—after five visits to the house—we decided to keep looking. The second was a beautiful, secluded,1970s brick ranch with more storage spaces than we could ever fill and three garages, ideal for our aforementioned hobbies. Sadly, the owner would not take an offer on contingency, and with no savings in place, we had to sell our house before we could put money down on another. The third was a beautiful old farmhouse on an acre of land just off a busy thoroughfare. The living room had vaulted ceilings soaring above a white brick fireplace. Again, no go on the contingency offer.
Just as we were about to give up and figure out how to make peace with our own home and its attendant issues, including its memories and loud traffic and screaming neighbors, we agreed to see six houses in one day. The first house, bare minutes from L’s dad and his wife, was set on a hilltop and held some promise. We exited the car to the sound of gunfire. Nope. Nope. I scurried wide-eyed back to the car. The following four were also non-starters.
Just before dusk, we pulled up to a tan single-story home on a large lot filled with mature hardwood trees shading a peaked roofline interrupted by a stately brick chimney flanked by two tall windows.
My heart and my pace quickened. The home was still being lived in and the young family had vacated for an hour, giving us enough time to get a good feel for the place. We walked into a pretty front hallway that led to a long, beautiful kitchen with whitewashed cupboards and a big stainless-steel refrigerator. A breakfast nook sat at the end of the hallway, framed by a bay window looking out onto the long driveway and the entrance to the fenced-in backyard, where a big barn sat waiting for some TLC.
The spacious primary bedroom and bath sat to the left of the hall, and to the right, the living room—graced by a beamed, vaulted ceiling and a white brick fireplace. Two big bedrooms were located to either side of a hall bathroom at the other end of the house, perfect for home offices. The house was completed by a small but lovely dining room, a big sunroom, a three-season room and a garage.
“I don’t hate this.” I said. “Actually, I kind of love it.”
And I did. This house, that we have called home for four months now, was everything we loved in the other four houses we bid on, all rolled into one. It has become our peaceful enclave, our sanctuary among the birds and the trees, the deer and the croaking frogs. We hate leaving to “go into town” and can’t wait to return.
This house had considerably more charm than its photos suggested. There was no bait-and-switch. The pretty package came with solid goods for the right price.
And we are home.
Thank you for this important reminder not to give up a few minutes before the miracle. Beautiful.
I'm relieved that you found a solid home befitting both of your hearts. Mazel tov.