This New Condo

Last night I dreamt I was on a swim team. After watching me swim for a few minutes, the coach decided I shouldn’t swim more than one length of the pool during meets. Because I don’t do flip turns, she reasoned, there was no use in swimming more than one lap.

I woke up frustrated and indignant. In the dream, I wanted to be a good swimmer for the team, and the coach wasn’t helping me. I knew I could be better, but I was being held back.

I’ve been having a lot of dreams like this lately. I wake up frustrated and anxious. So what’s going on in my waking life to provoke such nightly discomfort?

Peter and I are buying a house.

Those of you who are homeowners just nodded knowingly, didn’t you? Because you already know what I have just learned. . . .that buying a house is an effective way of showing just how helpless and powerless we are in the face of a crashingly huge financial system that loves to watch us squirm.

It all started last summer when Peter and I visited Topsail Island, North Carolina, a favorite childhood destination of mine. After a week’s worth of beach strolls and orangey red sunrises over the sound, we decided to buy a condo there.

As academics on ten month contracts, we reasoned that buying a summer place while renting in our college town would give us an investment opportunity while still allowing us mobility in our job location. It was a well-reasoned idea, one that I had pondered for a while before Peter came into my life.

With Peter by my side, the idea could become a reality much quicker, so a few months ago, we contacted a real estate agent in North Carolina. We told her the parameters of our search, and she began emailing links featuring beautiful beach-front condos. As the snow drifted and the winds howled in Montana, we gazed longingly at pictures of balconies with ocean views and patio furniture.

Too soon, we were jerked into reality when we began shopping for mortgages. We discovered that applying for a mortgage is as personally invasive (and significantly less comfortable) as an anal probe.  They wanted bank, retirement, and tax statements. They wanted pay stubs and a credit check and just when we thought we had nothing left to give, they wanted more: landlord addresses, previous employers, etc. And this was all before we had left Montana!

As soon as graduation ended, Peter and I headed for the east coast with high hopes of finding a place early enough to get it closed before returning to school in August. Unfortunately, life had other plans for us.

Martha, our MINI Cooper, had been acting up, complaining of electrical problems since last summer. Four dealerships and a year later, she finally puttered to a stop in Rapid City, South Dakota, only one day into our trip from Montana to North Carolina.

With Martha loaded on a tow truck, Peter, Gracie the cockatiel, and I endured a seven hour truck drive to Loveland, Colorado, the closest MINI dealership to Rapid City. After four bumpy hours on the road, the wind kicked up and a storm descended bringing hail that sounded like shrapnel piercing the roof of the tow truck. Martha weathered the storm without a scratch, but as we pulled into the MINI dealership three hours later, the clouds parted and we saw the promised land: a Subaru dealership.

A few days later in our new Subaru, we arrived in North Carolina, ready to condo shop. At this point in the column, I need to thank my parents, not only for tagging along but also for exposing me to HGTV’s show, House Hunters. After watching a few episodes, I learned that house hunting is all about compromise. No place is perfect, I discovered, but a few condos we saw weren’t even close.

There was the one with the bouncy floor (some kind of laminate problem, I guess), the one with the porch screens ripped out, and my favorite, the one with four couches in the living room. I know removing the couches was an easy fix, but such a bizarre furnishing style really made me wonder about the owners.

Finally, we agreed on our first condo, a small, two bed, two bath place on the sixth floor of a large, well- maintained building. Though the furnishings looked like cast offs from the Golden Girls set, I loved the ocean view from the balcony.

But before we could make an offer, we ran into two significant snags: first, the building was pet free; second, the building was designated as a condo-tel (that is, the building would rent condos by the night). The first problem could be solved with a letter to the Homeowner’s Association but the second problem proved to be insurmountable.

It turns out that most mortgages are underwritten by Fannie Mae and/or Freddie Mac. Neither of these companies will underwrite a mortgage for a condo housed in a condo-tel.

Really? Companies like Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac are the reason our economy is in the toilet, but I have to live up to their *ah-hem* discerning standards? C'mon, coach! Let me do more than one lap! I swear I can do it!

This setback proved significant as Topsail has only a few condo buildings, and purchasing a house was out of the question. Why? Because neither Peter nor I are interested in taking care of a lawn, garden, roof, etc. We’re not “fix ‘er up” types. The only non “fix ‘er up” homes on Topsail Island are well beyond our meager professorial salaries.

Back at the starting block, we asked our realtor to show us a few condos in a resort building not deemed a condo-tel and were lucky to find a terrific, affordable place.

At this point, I thought the hard part was over. We’d found a place and a mortgage, and it would be all downhill from there. (I just re-read that line and can’t believe how dumb I was).

All of the hurdles that followed (negotiating with the sellers, finding a home inspector, finding the best mortgage rate) would have led to fewer night terrors had I one important character trait: patience.

As I have mentioned in previous columns, I am a champion worrier, and I think most of this worry stems from my lack of patience. If I were a more patient person, I’m sure I’d worry less, but as it is, anyone who’s seen my left ear (my favorite worry spot) knows I’m one job/home/family loss short of pulling a Van Gogh.

So for now, we wait. The mortgage company appears to be on board, the contract has been signed, and a close date has been set.

So what do I have left to worry about?

The owner wants to keep renting out the condo until we close. The thought of random people’s naked butts on what my furniture is keeping me up at night.