Confessions of A Naughty Girl

Is It Right To Buy A House Just So You Can F*ck on the Floor?

I've been house hunting for the past few weeks, and let me tell you - it's a lot harder than I thought.

Everyone warned me that it would be a lot of work, but I had no idea just how much.

Don't get me wrong - buying a house is exciting, and I'm thrilled that I'm finally at a point in my life where I can stop cutting rent checks and start painting my walls black and hanging up all of my skull and crossbones statues that I've kept in hiding for so long. But it is a big decision. Big. Right on par with deciding what kind of car I'll be driving for the next five years, or who the last person I will (hopefully) ever sleep with will be when I decide to get married and take myself off the market. (I'm reviewing applications and proposals. It's an ongoing process.)

My realtor, who is a former WNBA player (information courtesy of her website), is great, but she can't really make my decisions for me. Do I want a house? A townhome? A condo? Do I want new construction? Renovated units? Or maybe even just a cardboard box that I can spend countless hours renovating myself? The whole decision-making process is nervewracking! As nice as it will be to be able to call something mine, every decision I make on this one is going to have a huge impact on my day-to-day life for the next 83 years, which is the current estimated amount of time it will take me to pay off my mortgage.

Last week, after going to so many open houses I can't even count, I finally set some parameters. I want a townhome, I want at least 2 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms, and I don't want to live in a ghetto, sippin' on gin and juice. Surprisingly, this was all I even needed to tell her. She handled the rest, and yesterday morning, I met her bright and early to look at places.

We looked at nine different places all around the city. Of those places, I liked two. F*ck. If I like a place, I expect to feel the same way I feel whenever I've just met some guy that I suspect might change my life - butterflies, excitement, and the San Francisco boys choir singing shit like "Hark! Hallelujah Jesus!" in my ears.

The first place was golden, and I was just about to tell her to look into it more when King Fat Ass Kong, who would presumably be my upstairs neighbor, put on some high heels that made noises so loud, I thought the apocalypse had come. In the blink of an eye, my dream of living in this place was totally shattered. There is no way in hell I'm going to be woken up by Jimmy Choo in the morning, and that's only when she puts on her shoes. Can you imagine how depressing it would be to hear her f*cking her boyfriend? I refuse to stand for having tangible evidence that my neighbor is getting more ass than I am. That's a dealbreaker, if only for the sake of my mental health.

Another townhouse we looked at was shit. I mean, yuck. The appliances were old, the place was filthy, but I wanted to date the former owner. It looked like he had moved out long ago, but he left some of the stuff there. The dining room chandelier was an industrial-style urn-looking thing that glowed red when you turned it on, the nightstand in the guest room was a canoe that had been converted into a table, and there was a turntable and some drums on the second floor balcony overlook. It was ugly as shit, but I would bet you that guy was both a pimp and a total Dick. Too bad he had moved out, because I wasn't going to buy his place, but I'd definitely hit it. (Kidding...I'm kidding! I have moved beyond Dicks, remember? Or so I'm trying. It's an uphill battle.)

After a few more instant "no's" (including an awesome townhouse in an "up-and-coming", which is real estate shorthand for "still-a-50%-hood-where-crack-dealers-abound" that had - verbatim - "your a bich" scrawled on the refuse dumpster), we headed to a more civilized neighborhood, and I found it.

I found it!

The dream home.

The only problem is, it's hella expensive. And although it met absolutely all of my needs, I think the only reason I really liked it so much was because of the floors.

I wanted to f*ck on those floors.

This was no average, ordinary flooring. It wasn't hardwood, it wasn't carpet, and it wasn't tile. It was....bamboo. Oh yes, bamboo. It is this shiny, amazing, hard surface that looks so clean I would have eaten McDonald's off of it. And it's everywhere (well, everywhere downstairs - the upstairs is carpeted)!

As soon as we stepped in the door, I was awestruck. Immediately, I had visions of myself and some really hot guy going at it in the kitchen. (And no, it wasn't a specific guy, he was faceless, but beautifully endowed.) I had visions of sitting on the couch with Faceless Guy, watching Grey's Anatomy, and just looking at the floor, looking at him, and tackling him to the ground while we had some hot, primitive goodness on my bamboo-floored living room.

So when my realtor finally asked me what I thought, I was so totally engrossed in my fantasy that I had a hard time coming up with something. I can't remember exactly what I said, but I veered away from, "I want to f*ck on this floor!" and went more with something along the lines of, "The appliances are brand-new. What a plus!"

After careful review, I am moving forward on making an offer on the house with the f*ckable bamboo, and trying to track down Mr. Canoe Turntables, in the hopes that he is still single, and moved into a bigger house. I'll keep you posted.

posted by KA @ 5:30 PM