Jen Lancaster - If You Were Here

Mac claims that I’m the tenderhearted one, taking in all these pets, but you should have seen him bottle-feeding the kittens after their mother abandoned them.

Mac and I resided in a series of cheap, cramped urban dwellings long after we both started making money. I was so used to living beneath my means that it never occurred to me to upgrade as my means increased.

At some point, Mac started introducing a little bit of luxury into our lives, and we found it suited us. You know what? French-press coffee is better than Folgers. A down-filled leather couch feels a whole lot better than a lumpy old futon. And a new German sedan does indeed drive better than a fifteen-year-old Honda with a leaky sunroof.

Once I finally got comfortable with opening my wallet, we toyed around with the notion of buying a house. Soon enough, Mac and I were swooning at the thought of solid brick houses with big backyards for the dogs. Sure, our pit bull, Daisy, doesn’t care for the outdoors, and Duckie 5can’t be away from her for a moment, but the idea of a yard was appealing.

We hadn’t yet found the proper suburban outpost when record rainfall cracked our old rental home’s foundation and caused our walls to fill with mold. Simply leasing a new apartment in the city seemed like the most expedient way to, you know, not die, so we began to scour options on Craigslist.

Our current place was one of the first listings we saw online, but we didn’t even consider it a possibility; it was so nice we thought the rent had been posted wrong. I mean, there we were in a thousand square feet with walls full of deadly spores, but a couple miles west for a few bucks more, we could have three thousand square feet of new construction with a two-car garage and no specter of death hanging over our heads? Really? we asked each other. And that’s not a misprint?

This house took our collective breath away the second we stepped inside. With eleven-foot ceilings, thick crown molding, and Brazilian cherry floors, we thought we’d died and gone to high-def HGTV heaven. We walked from room to room, admiring all the fine finishes. A butler’s pantry? Yes, please! A second bathroom made entirely out of slabs of slate and tumbled river rocks? You know, I’ve been meaning to get me one of those! A Sub-Zero fridge and a sixburner Wolf range? Why, this gorgeous chef’s kitchen may end my apathy toward fixing dinner once and for all!

We marveled at the idea of a city house containing four huge bedrooms. I mean, we wouldn’t fill them up with kids, 6but I was willing to wager we could put them all to good use. I could have a fitness room! And an office that wasn’t really a hallway! And a guest room! We could have a guest room! Which meant we could finally have guests!

We couldn’t figure out why such an amazing place was a) so cheap and b) unoccupied, but we didn’t care. We wrote a deposit check as fast as our fingers would fly and we were settled in here within the week.

For the most part, we’ve been delighted with this place. I mean, everyone has a concept of what their dream house might be like, but all I have to do to picture mine is open my eyes.

And yet… I must admit a minor addiction to HGTV, no doubt stemming from my early John Hughes — based house lust. So, there’s a part of me that mourns the loss of getting my hands dirty in creating a place in my own vision. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to make my design divine with Candice Olson or see if Carter really can. Mac and I both have a tiny, sexless crush on Holmes on Homes , and we’d adore having him get all self-righteous and blustery over shoddy masonry before he saved our bacon from the fire. 7

The thing is, there’s not a single thing this joint needs. What am I going to do? Tear up the gleaming hardwood to see if there’s stained carpeting underneath? The bathrooms are already showplaces full of sunken tubs and six-headed steam showers. Should I replace the sinks with a cracked Formica vanity? The kitchen’s gorgeous and functional, with forty-two-inch cherry cabinets, granite counters, and a French country chopping-block island in the middle of it. The only way to improve the kitchen would be to forbid Mac to cook in it. 8Plus, I’ve got two decks and a patio and I’ve landscaped the hell out of all of them. Curb appeal? I’ve got it on speed dial, baby.

Okay, fine.

I’m sometimes discouraged when the rats eat from my artfully arranged, eclectically mixed herb and flower gardens. Also, the neighborhood’s not the best. It’s up-and-coming, or at least on the verge of it.

Or it was.

Our ’hood has gone a tiny bit downhill, with the way the economy’s been going the past few years. And I might not love how the people across the street allow their unwashed kids to run around in their jammies well after an appropriate bedtime. But the house is still perfect, and with the depressed market, we should be able to negotiate a better deal.

We’re supposed to get our appraisal any minute now, and we’re anxious to see the results. And even though we’re already in the house we want to buy, we asked our Realtor friend Liz to help us navigate the process.

Liz insisted we get an appraisal to protect us from overpaying. Our landlord was shocked to hear that we’d brought a Realtor into the mix, but come on, that’s how I roll! I mean, I have an accountant to handle my taxes, a financial counselor for the rest of my money, an attorney to keep my dumb ass from getting sued, a film agent for any television and movie stuff, a lecture agent for my speaking engagements, and a literary agent to hash out my print deals. (I write a young-adult series about teenage Amish zombies in love; it’s surprisingly lucrative.) So why on earth would I enter into the biggest financial commitment of my life without a professional at my side? I might be a little loopy sometimes, but I’m not stupid.

We wait outside in the freezing cold for a few minutes to see if ORNESTEGA will make another appearance. He doesn’t, so Mac shouts, “Buy a belt!” toward his apartment before we head inside to report the incident to the police. The beat cop who shows up advises us next time we see a tagger to call them and not to take the matter into our own hands. He said a lot of times tagging is step one of a gang initiation ritual and that we should be more cautious. I look over at Mac, who’s nodding placidly at the officer, and laugh to myself. Yeah, like that’s going to happen with Sergeant MacNamara on patrol.

Once the officer leaves, we walk up the wide steps to our handcarved front door. Right before we go inside, I ask Mac what’s going to happen when the tagger inevitably spray-paints our garage.

“Don’t you worry,” he assures me. “I have a foolproof plan.”

When I pull out of the garage today to meet my best friend,Tracey, for lunch, I find ORNESTEGA scrawled in eight-inch silver letters across our door. I hurriedly pound the keypad on my phone to dial Mac, who promises he’s going to take care of it immediately.

Tracey and I live on opposite sides of the monument in the middle of the square. She’s on the good side, with all the cute boutiques and darling cafés and trendy coffeehouses, whereas my side is Latin Kings — and-Cobra adjacent. I’d probably worry about living so close to two warring gangs but the thing is — and please don’t judge — Mac and I are a tad conservative, 9which means we may or may not have a small weapons stockpile. And unlike our Cobras and Kings neighbors, we actually know how to hit a target. 10

Tracey and I have a fab lunch at Lulu’s, 11our favorite café, where we drink fair-trade tea and laugh at the twentysomethings clad in T-shirts boasting the names of my favorite shows as a kid. Listen, you with the fedora and hipster ’fro, five bucks says you’ve never even seen Charles in Charge .