Jen Lancaster - If You Were Here

Sure, my eyes are distracted by all that’s going on in the vicinity of the walls, but then again, I can’t help but notice how open and airy everything is. Plus the scope of the staircase is nothing short of grand. That’s worth noting, right?

Tracey takes in the whole room before answering, “It depends.”

“On?” Mac prompts.

“On whether or not you’re a Real Housewife of New Jersey.”

Ouch.

We pass from the flamboyant hallway into an equally ornate and scroll-y dining room. “I figured out the lights in here, too,” Liz informs us. “Look up.” The last time we were here in the relative darkness, we thought the tray ceiling had been painted with some light gray paint for a little architectural contrast. Yet when Liz hits the switch, the whole thing begins to glow from the silver-leaf treatment and tiny LED lights sprinkled randomly throughout twinkle like miniature stars.

“Did not see that coming,” Mac notes.

Tracey says nothing, instead simply choosing to nod. Yet I have to wonder how twinkly and festive the ceiling might feel around a properly set table full of family and friends. I bet it’s not awful.

We circle around the foyer to the powder room. I actually thought this room was pretty cool the last time we were here, but in watching Tracey’s reaction to the enormous tufted button holding up swags and swags of alternating cranberry and forest layers of silk on the ceiling, I rethink my position. 46

“It’s like being at the circus!”

“But the ceiling’s made of silk,” I protest. “Silk is a nice fabric, right?”

“Oh, honey, yes, but not on a bathroom ceiling. The material’s not the problem — it’s the context.” She continues to peer at the fixtures. “Wait. There’s a hookah in here — no, this isn’t a circus. Rather, it’s more like The Thousand and One Nights . I shall call this room ‘Scheherazade Takes a Shit,’ ” Tracey says, attempting — and failing — to not bray with laughter.

We pass into an electric green reading room filled with fake potted palms. Dusty plastic leaves form an awning over our heads. Tracey strolls the perimeter of the room, first taking in the paint choices and then inspecting the zebra-skin couch topped with round fuchsia, yellow, and royal blue throw pillows. “This room looks like Tommy Bahama banged a bag of Skittles.”

There’s an enormous lion-headed water feature in the corner, and the window looks out over the statue of a bear on the patio. “So, what do you think, kids,” Tracey asks, “Russian Mafia or Italian Mafia?”

“But,” I protest,“paint can be changed. Candice Olson says so all the time. And check out the window treatments!” Last time we were here, I fell in love with the thick white wooden-slat blinds. “Those are custom-made plantation shades!”

Tracey’s not having it. “Yeah, and you certainly could never replicate those, right?”

Ooh, good point.

“To be fair, Tracey, you’ve told me how much you love French Provincial houses.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “In Provence.”

I feel like I have to defend our bringing her here, so I say,“I swear this place didn’t seem nearly so over-the-top with the lights off.”

Before she can get in another snarky remark, I add, “Plus, this room isn’t what sold us. You haven’t yet seen the adorable guesthouse off the back patio. A guesthouse! As in a separate house for guests! You know what people in Indiana don’t have? A spare house for visitors. How exciting is that? Guests could have all the peace and privacy they wanted. Genius! And more important, there’s a pool and a pond. Do you realize if we buy this house we could be all, ‘We’ve got a pool and a pond. Pond would be good for you,’ every time someone came to visit. How hilarious would that be?”

“Mia, you can’t drop that kind of cash on a house just because you want to quote Caddyshack .”

I guess we’ll see about that.

“Let’s just finish the tour before we completely rule it out,” I reason.

We move on to the ultra-high-end kitchen, with its custom cabinetry and PRO series Sub-Zero fridge and wine cooler and double dishwasher and. . ropes and ropes of fake ivy and pretend grapes. They seem to have snaked their way from the entry hall, over the balcony, and back down the wall in here. The plastic vines are strewn everywhere — on top of cabinets, over the fridge, looped from the ceiling, and woven into the window treatments. Tracey grows increasingly appalled. “No, seriously, the owners have to fire this home stager. Hell, I might just e-mail some photos to Get It Sold , because clearly they could use the help.”

Then we get to the big dance — the two-story family room with its trompe l’oeil tray ceiling with its columns and cherubs. Tracey doesn’t notice it until I point up, and when she does, she jumps a little. “It just gets better and better.”

“To be fair, that wasn’t done cheaply,” I say, attempting to be the devil’s advocate for the house. I’m coming around to agreeing that it might be a tad much, but someone dropped a ton of cash upgrading this place, and I really do like the pool and the pond.

Okay, I can’t not say it again.

Pond would be good for you.

See? Hilarious! Every time!

“Oh, no,”Tracey agrees. “You’re right on target there. Someone paid big money on these hideous treatments, thus proving the axiom ‘You can’t buy taste.’ ”

Mac’s been looking in the pantry (which, of course, boasts another ginormous chandelier) (and, of course, impressed me on our last visit) and comes out to rejoin the conversation. “Obviously the place isn’t our taste—”

“This is no one’s taste,” Tracey insists.

Mac is undeterred. “But the reason we brought you here is to get your opinion on the bones of the place. Is what’s underneath all the grapes and sparkles worth salvaging?”

Tracey pulls out a chair and has a seat at the rococo-legged kitchen table with the five-inch-thick marble top. “Here’s my issue with that — you said the house was priced reasonably but not great.”

Liz sits across from us and she nods, toying with the enormous bowl of fake plastic grapes in the center. “I feel like they’d really need to come down on the asking price to make this place a good deal, and from what the listing agent says, they’re not terribly negotiable. It’s not a short-sale situation, at least not yet.”

Tracey processes this information. “To me, it doesn’t make financial sense to pay a premium for expensive fixtures and then get rid of them. You’re going to have to fork over multiple thousands to chase the ghost of Carmella Soprano out of here. You want to rip stuff out? Then I suggest you find a house that’s priced accordingly or needs rehabbing.”

Mac nods. “That’s what I’ve been telling Mia. I say if we want the most house for our money, we buy a fixer-upper, but she’s totally against it.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Mia. Why so opposed?”Tracey asks.

“Redecorate? Yes. Rehab? No. I mean, remember when we had the leaky shower pan in the rental house on Old Gold Ave., and the one-week repair job turned into a two-month bath-gutting odyssey? No, thanks. I’d rather keep looking,” I reply.

Mac turns to me, “So this place? It’s out of the running?”

“Tracey makes a lot of sense about not tearing down expensive finishes,” I have to admit. “Should we go?” I rise from the table.

“Oh, no, no — I’ve got to see what treasures await upstairs,” Tracey says.

I’m not sure what particular feature finally pushes Tracey over the edge — whether it’s the Wild West saloon doors separating the hot-pink master toilet from the hot-pink sunken tub 47or the massive elk-antler chandelier in the upstairs den or the wire-enclosed children’s bed that’s supposed to look like a princess coach but instead resembles a coast guard marine-rescue cage. She spends most of the ride to the city cackling and wiping her eyes.