Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House: A Memoir

Description:

The “funny, charming, and shocking” true story (The New York Times Book Review) of one woman’s quest for the four perfect walls to call home.

In this laugh-out-loud personal journey, acclaimed author Meghan Daum explores the perils and pleasures of believing that only a house can make you whole. From her teenage apartment fantasies and her mother’s decorating manias to her own “hidden room” dreams and the bungalow she eventually buys on her own, Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House “[chronicles] an obsession that threatens to upend sanity and bank accounts…. Daum has a rare gift in her ability to keep readers laughing through her own tears” (The New York Times Book Review).

Review

“Funny, charming and shocking. . . . [Chronicles] an obsession that threatens to upend sanity and bank accounts. . . . Daum has a rare gift in her ability to keep readers laughing through her own tears. . . . Her spirit is generous, her writing is buoyant, and her heart is open to all the ways in which a house holds the key to happiness. Perfection has nothing to do with it.”
—The New York Times Book Review

“Wonderful. . . . Like having a long, glorious, no-holds-barred conversation with your smartest, funniest friend about all the juicy topics: real estate, class envy, bad dates, family identity, and the discrepancies between the lives we aspire to and the lives we lead. I’m awed by Daum’s honesty and talent.”
—Curtis Sittenfeld

“A delightful dissection of the real estate obsession that’s a hallmark of our age, recession or no.”
—O, The Oprah Magazine

“Self-deprecatingly funny. . . . Daum uses her lifelong obsession with finding the ideal living space to probe domestic desire, a deeper restlessness than the search for quick profits.”
—The Wall Street Journal

“Honest and endearing . . . richly drawn. . . . Daum captures the now-gone moment when real estate became a national obsession, chronicling the shared madness of those who could only take breaks from watching HGTV to discuss closing costs. . . . As she moves from coast to coast and in between, Daum is consistently relatable.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review

“Suffused with humor and desire. . . . Alternately whimsical, philosophical and psychologically probing. . . . [An] enchanting, compelling memoir on the impossibility of resisting an irresistible object of desire.”
—The Miami Herald

“Daum tackles real estate—or, more pointedly, the fixation, anxiety and magical thinking that often accompany it—with wit and a gift for self-parody. . . . Her prose has smarts, style and personality, but never turns pretentious. . . . It’s a pleasure to read this author as she revisits comic misadventures and wrangles with a hot-button topic.”
—Time Out New York

“Vividly described. . . . Daum exposes the modern real-estate-mad female underground, where open houses (visited in rabid two-women teams) are a seasonal blood sport, Zillow is a verb, and where remodeling a collapsing farmhouse into a writer’s retreat could instantly, we imagine, transform us into the George Plimpton of the prairie.”
—The Atlantic Monthly

“Entertaining. . . . Like a romantic comedy in which Daum always seems to rent Mr. Wrong. . . . Don’t be surprised if you race through Life Would Be Perfect in a single night.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Daum is the essential Generation X-er. . . . She radiates the eternal youthfulness and the fear of commitment that define her cohort. . . . Life Would Be Perfect is the memoir of how the wandering Ms. Daum finally put down some roots. . . . A great book.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer

“Timely. . . . Daum [is] a fine writer—candid, reflective, stylish, fun and a bit prickly. Throughout the book, she offers an unflinching portrayal of her anxieties and her aspirations. . . . When she finally realizes that a house is not what will make her whole, you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.”
—Associated Press

“In this funny, horrifying (she came this close to buying a place near a roaring interstate because she was smitten with a landing), achingly honest memoir, Daum explores the way we wrap our identities in our surroundings, at one point wondering, ‘Did the house look sexy on me?’ Home truths, indeed.”
—More

About the Author

MEGHAN DAUM is the author of the essay collection My Misspent Youth and the novel The Quality of Life Report, a New York Times Notable Book. Her column on political, cultural, and social affairs appears weekly in the Los Angeles Times and is distributed nationally through theMcClatchy news service. She has contributed to public radio’s Morning Edition, Marketplace, and This American Life, and has written for numerous publications, including The New Yorker, Harper’s Magazine, GQ, Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, and The New York Times Book Review. She lives in Los Angeles.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

PROLOGUE

Yesterday, a piece of my house came off in my hands. I don’t mean that metaphorically. I banged the garbage can against an outside wall, and a piece of stucco about the size of a sheet of paper came ever so slightly loose. When I touched it, it fell gently into my palm. It was as if the house were giving me a lock of its hair, or perhaps coughing up phlegm. I was concerned, but it also happened that I was really busy that day. I just couldn’t get into it with the stucco, not right then anyway. Also, I was coming up on my five-year anniversary of owning the house, and if there’s anything I’ve learned in five years, it’s this: if a piece of your house falls off and you don’t know what to do with it, throwing it in the trash and forgetting about it is a perfectly viable option. And it so happened that the trash can was right there. Once upon a time I would have made a beeline to the yellow pages to look up “stucco replacement,” but I’ve come a long way since then.

So has the house. I bought it in 2004, and as I write this, it’s supposedly worth $100,000 less than what I paid for it. By the time you read this, it will probably be worth even less than that. I try not to care because if I cared too much, or even thought about it too much, I’d go insane. I’ve spent enough time here being insane, believe me. I was insane when I bought the place, and I went even more insane afterward. Then again, the whole world was high a few years ago. The whole world, or at least the whole country, was buying real estate and melting it down to liquid form and then injecting it into veins. For my part, it’s tempting to say I succumbed to peer pressure, but it was really much more complicated than that. There is no object of desire quite like a house. Few things in this world are capable of eliciting such urgent, even painful, yearning. Few sentiments are at once as honest and as absurd as the one that moves us to declare: “Life would be perfect if I lived in that house.”

I’m writing this book in homage to that sentiment, which is to say I’m telling the story of a very imperfect life lived among very imperfect houses.

A large part of that story, of course, involves the house that is now falling apart in my hands, the gist of which is basically this: In 2004, I was among the nearly six million Americans who purchased real estate. Like roughly a quarter of them, I was a single woman (single men don’t buy houses nearly as often), and I was making the leap for the first time. Again, this was a time when the real estate market had reached a frenzy that surpassed even the tech boom of the mid-1990s. It was scarcely possible back then to attend a party or even get your teeth cleaned without falling into a conversation about real estate: its significance, its desirability, its increasing aura of unattainability. My dental hygienist, for example, had robust opinions about reverse mortgages.

Like many of my friends and neighbors, I attended so many open houses and made such a complete study of the Multiple Listing Service that the homes on the market seemed like human beings. We discussed the quirks and prices of these properties as though we were gossiping about our neighbors. At the risk of making a perverse and offensive comparison, I truly don’t think I’d observed so much absorption with one topic since the attacks of September 11, 2001. As in those chilling days, we could literally speak of nothing else. People who had never put a thought toward home ownership were being seduced by record-low interest rates and “creative” financing plans. People who’d happily owned their homes for years were doubling and tripling their equity and suddenly realizing they could cash out or trade up. If the jolt of the fall of 2001 had rocked our sense of safety to the nub, the real estate craze that followed a few years later gave us a reason to wager that the very notion of security, at least the kind made of four walls and a roof, was something that could be purchased, often without good credit or a down payment.

As caught up in all this static as I was, none of these factors had much to do with the reason I depleted most of my savings to buy a nine-hundred-square-foot bungalow for more than four times the money my parents had paid for the two-story, four-bedroom house I grew up in. At the time, I might have said otherwise. I probably insisted (I say “probably” since, as with all major life decisions, the relevant details tend to get lost in the mix; I do, however, remember the outfit I was wearing—a tank top with a strange and rather awful floralpatterned skirt—when I signed the escrow papers) that I was making an investment, that I was “putting my money in the safest place,” that I was tired of dealing with landlords. All of that was true, but it was only years later that I could see there was something else going on entirely. I bought the house because I was thirty-four years old, had been self-employed most of my adult life, had never been married, was childless, had no boyfriend nor any appealing prospects in that department, and was hungry to the point of weakness for something that would root me to the earth.

Of course, that’s as good a list as any of reasons not to buy a house. Freelance writers haven’t historically been the best risks for mortgage lenders, and the absence of a romantic life, be it by choice, circumstance, or a narcissistic refusal to participate in Internet dating (which I suppose counted as a choice), doesn’t on the surface seem relevant to the acquisition of property. But most people have a hard time separating the self from the home, and I was no exception. More than just shelter for ourselves and for our loved ones, more than just “the biggest purchase you’ll ever make,” a house is a repository for every piece of baggage we’ve ever carried. Our homes protect us from the outside world, show off our taste, and accommodate our stuff. Perhaps above all, they prove to ourselves and to the world that we’ve really and truly moved out of our childhood bedrooms.

But what do we do when a house makes life impossible? What if it threatens to destroy us? What do we do when the market tanks, the hillside collapses, the sub-prime mortgage comes home to roost, or we’re just too tired to keep working the extra jobs and overtime now required to afford what used to be a staple of middle-class life? Do we stick it out? Do we cash out? Do we return to the life of a renter, with its aura of tapestry-covered, grad-student-style impermanence? Does selling your house mean losing your independence or gaining it? Does giving it up mean giving up on yourself?

Mercifully, I’m not losing my house to the bank. I have an old-fashioned thirty-year mortgage, and I make my payment every month. And despite the stucco incident, the property has hardly fallen into disrepair. It’s true that at times home ownership has felt like a bigger burden than I imagined even in my most nail-biting pre-purchase moments. It’s true that the money I’ve spent on plumbers and electricians and roofers and tree trimmers might ultimately have been put to better use on Hawaiian vacations while I remained an innocent renter. But the truth is that it wouldn’t have really mattered. The cash would have slipped through my fingers anyway. Over the years, I’ve put preposterous amounts of energy and money into the places I’ve lived, even rentals. I’ve also put preposterous amounts into moving, storage, lost security deposits, and gas money for drives halfway across the country and back as I tried to figure out exactly where and how I wanted to live and whether my fitful bursts of house lust would ever translate into something approximating “settling down.”

But this book is not just the story of the house I bought. It’s also not just the story of other houses I tried to buy or of the disorienting yet sometimes hilarious effects of having a mother who seemed to rearrange the furniture more often than she
changed her clothes. And while I could easily embark on a blow-by-blow of repairs and improvements and zombielike trips to Home Depot, while I could rehash every detail of faulty wiring or of ornery workmen or rats that feasted on the orange tree in the backyard, I’m going to try to keep a lid on that particular pot. That’s the standard stuff of home-buying stories, and having now devoured more home repair manuals and sybaritic shelter magazines than the sum total of my college reading, I’ve come to think it’s about as interesting as people recounting their dreams over the breakfast table.

Instead, this is the story of what happens when, for whatever reason, your identity becomes almost totally wrapped up not in who you are or how you live but in where you live. It’s than committing to a partner or doing my job or even the ostensibly obvious fact that the sun would rise and set regardless of whether my name was on a mortgage. And though I can’t presume to be able to shed new light on what, in precredit-crunch days, possessed vast numbers of Americans to ignore all logic and purchase houses they couldn’t begin to afford, I do think we were all touched by the same strain of crazy. I may make my payments, but I suspect there isn’t a terribly wide gulf between people whose houses have been repossessed and people who, like me, simply seem possessed by whatever version of grown-up life we were hoping to play out by playing house. This is the story of my lifelong game of house.

ONE

The first house I ever had fantasies about was a wood-and-glass octagon occupied by an imaginary person whose name I’d decided was Malcolm Apricot Dingo. The way I remember it, the house (which was real) looked more like a giant lemonade pitcher than a place where people might actually live. It sat on a weedy plot of land on a winding street, a tall, barrel-like structure that at certain times of day and given a certain arrangement of the window shades provided a view all the way through to the backyard. I was six years old, and this was a source of unending delight; the house made me feel as if I had X-ray vision, as if I were bionic.

Twice a day, my mother drove me past this house on our twenty-minute drive to and from my school. The commute had been made necessary by our recent move to a new neighborhood and my mother’s last-minute decision, amid my begging and tears, to allow me to attend first grade at the same school where I’d attended kindergarten. The summer before, my parents had bought their first house, a yellow brick bungalow in a state of nearly unfathomable decay, and for all of my mother’s enthusiasm about the new neighborhood she hadn’t taken the final step of forcing me to attend school in the proper district. In retrospect, this deferment of the inevitable seems by turns tender and useless. I’d transfer to my zone-appropriate school the following year. The year after that, we’d pack our belongings in a rented Ryder truck and move seventeen hundred miles to yet another town and another school, where I’d stay for three years before another local move necessitated another clumsy navigation through a brine of strangers.

But in the year of the octagonal house, in those ten months when I passed it twice daily, each time announcing to my mother (I have an explicit memory of this, though she only vaguely recalls it) that Malcolm Apricot Dingo was watching us from behind the glass of what I was sure was his second-floor study, that having glanced up momentarily from his very important work he was waving to us, and that it was only polite that we wave back, I knew nothing of the gut-rattling chaos of being the new kid in school. I knew nothing of eating lunch alone while gamely pretending to read a book, of the indelibly bad impression that can be made from wearing the wrong clothes on the first day of school, of trying to forge friendships with people who’ve had the same best friend since before even the last time you were the new kid.

I also had little territorial frame of reference other than the lush, heat-stroked hill country of Austin, Texas, where we’d moved when I was three and where we’d stay until I was nearly nine. Though I was born in Palo Alto, California, and had trace memories of suburban Chicago, where my family had done a six-month stint when I was a toddler, the bulk of my early childhood was pure Texan. I had a drawl; I said “y’all” and “ahs cream” and assumed that everyone else in the world did, too. I also assumed that every summer day everywhere topped out at 108 degrees and that all cockroaches were the size of turtles and that armadillos were a common form of roadkill. My brother, who was four years younger than I, had been born in Austin in 1974, making him a native Texan. The retired couple who lived next door and whose college-aged children I worshipped were like surrogate grandparents. The city was also home to my friends, my babysitters, my school, my cat—in other words, everything that mattered. I was blond and perpetually tanned and pocked with bites from Texas mosquitoes.

I also happened to have an almost alarming fixation on Little House on the Prairie (first the TV show and, as soon as I could read, the books). I wore a sunbonnet passed down from my maternal great-grandmother, kept my hair in braids like Laura Ingalls, and occasionally called my parents Ma and Pa. When the bonnet wore down to a rag, my mother got out her sewing machine, which she often used to make our clothes, and whipped up a new one. At my request, she also helped me put my mattress on top of two box springs and leaned a stepladder against it, thereby mimicking the loft-bed setup of the Ingalls girls. In the yellow brick bungalow, where my mother built an elevated wooden play structure among the pecan trees in the backyard, I wore my bonnet along with an odd, scratchy calico skirt (a garment that could only have existed in the mid-1970s) and reenacted all manner of scenes from the books and TV episodes: the barn burning down, the dog getting lost, the whole family nearly dying from scarlet fever.

One day, my mother came to me and said that we would be moving away to New Jersey. I remember sobbing in her arms but also taking comfort in her promise that there would be snow in the new place. Since there was snow in the Little House on the Prairie books, I figured we were moving closer to the frontier. When she told me there’d be a real wood-burning fireplace in the new house, I imagined us using it for cooking corn bread.

Ridgewood, New Jersey, was no frontier, just a leafy village of perfectly clipped lawns abutting perfectly maintained houses. Mothers there did not sew clothes, much less build backyard play structures. In fact, they appeared not to do much of anything except play tennis, a discovery that seemed to turn my mother, who’d spent her Austin days attending Equal Rights Amendment rallies in peasant skirts, into an unhappy person almost overnight. Ironically, it was she who’d spearheaded the plan to move to Ridgewood. When my father, who’d been teaching music at the University of Texas, decided he wanted to live the life not of an academic but, rather, of a freelance composer (for commercial jingles, then hopefully for film and television) in New York, my mother had repeated the thing she’d apparently said shortly before they wed: “This marriage is about your career.” She then sought relocation advice from our neighbors/surrogate grandparents, who, as it happened, had lived much of their lives in Ridgewood, New ?Jersey.

“It’s a little pricier,” they’d said. “But it’s the best.”

“I like it here,” I said.

“Of course you do,” my mother told me. “But if we stayed here, we wouldn’t get to live in a new house!”

Reviews:

5.0 out of 5 stars Why Hasn't Anyone Explained this Before?

I.A. · May 7, 2010

Sometimes I get a feeling that feels so unique, I think that it would be impossible to ever put it into words, like the compulsion to buy all new "clean" makeup after a successful second date, the need to buy new underwear after getting a promotion, or the desire to clean my car after I get in a fight with a friend. This book explains those feelings, all processed through real estate. I can't count anymore how many times I've rearranged furniture in my life - including heavy dorm furniture. In fact, I went out to dinner with an exceptionally skinny friend the other night, and then promptly went home and ordered all new, white lampshades.But I digress. "Life Would be Perfect if I Live in that House" captures this phenomenon perfectly. The feeling that everything will be okay if there were just some wainscotting around. The notion that everything will never be okay if the furniture is out of proportion. I marvel at the folks who don't have these concerns - are they even out there? But the truth is that for those of us who do, who "break up" with the Restoration Hardware catalog, only to come crawling back when your relationship with the Rose Bowl flea market has tanked, will love this book. And those folks who don't have this obsession/quirk will find it a hilarious anthropological read. Actually, I laughed so hard at a few points that my dog freaked out a little.Buy and keep.

4.0 out of 5 stars I could not put it down!

J.C. · October 11, 2016

It was a diagnosis for me...I am forever on realtor.com. I am now in a 1938 renovated farmhouse on almost an acre and it has swallowed me whole. When people ask me about his unique and potentially really wonderful house ( and huge land)..I often reply..."Be Careful what you wish for). I love it and I have to remind myself...this is what I wanted. But, it is an unfinished symphony..at least a work in progress. And I can barely find the rest of my life in here because it deserves and demand so much.I like books and I like reading books. I enjoyed the swift moving prose, the colorful and intimate details...the discovery of a porcelain tile in the bathroom, the color changed in the walls, the times of just wanting to be home and on the bed. This could have been such a boring book. It wasn't boring at all. Entertaining and it made me pause snit in my plans for possibly moving again.

3.0 out of 5 stars Not for me, but well written

S.K.M. · July 21, 2010

Your enjoyment of this book will depend on the type of reader you are and what kind of story you're looking for. I quit reading about a third of the way through (unusual for me) because I had thought (after hearing the author interviewed on NPR) that the book was about house hunting. It is... a little. It's a lot about her life. I'm not saying her life isn't interesting; isn't everyone's to some degree? At any rate, it just wasn't what I was looking for, but the writing is solid and it is a bit witty.

5.0 out of 5 stars A life you can relate to--even if you don't want to admit it

A. · January 19, 2015

My search is always for the perfect next book--and this was one of them. Meghan Daum connects to the reader below the surface. In this world of form over substance, this book is like a Facebook page with pictures of a successful life but with an honest, introspective, often humerous note attached to each that says, "Now let me tell you the real story behind this one."After reading each of her books (I've already preordered her next), I come away feeling a bit saner and hopefully a bit more compassionate toward that hidden side to us all.

5.0 out of 5 stars THIS BOOK IS SO VERY FUNNY I LOVED IT. ALOT.

V.T. · July 22, 2015

I LOV ED THIS BOOK SHE IS SO FUNNY FOR THE PERSON WHO CALLED IT DARK HUMOE I DIDN'T KNOW THAT HUMOR HAS A COLOR. I FOUND IT DELIGHTFUL HILARIOUS BUT NOT DARK AT ALL A BIT SAD TOWARD THE END BUT MOSTLY FUNNY. ASO FOR ALL THE TASTELESS READERS WHO CAN'T EVER FIND ANYTHING TO SAY. ABOUT ANY GOOD HUMOROUS BOOKS THAT YOU READ HERES A TIP STOP READING BOOKS ALL TOGETHER, I WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU TRY TO WRITE A BOOK. ITS HARD WORK, SO SHUT UP AND TRY TO BE NICE I LOVED THIS HILARIOUS WARM BOOK AND I REALLY AM GLAD I FINALLY READ IT. ITS TRULY FUNNY AND FUN TO READ.

4.0 out of 5 stars Life Would be Perfect _____ Fill in the Blanks

K.U. · May 12, 2010

While not rollicking humor, this book will make you chuckle. I wondered at the lengths she went to fulfill her life fantasies about finding and living in a "perfect house." It certainly kept me reading.But it also can lead the reader to examine his or her own fantasies. What would make my life "perfect, " or what did I imagine would create a perfect life for me, only to find out it that really wasn't the issue in the first place. I figured that out before I began reading the book, partly because a dear friend and I had recently had a conversation regarding the fantasies we had each built about marriage and how different the realities can turn out to be.Good read. I recommend it.

2.0 out of 5 stars So Underwhelmed!

G. · September 8, 2010

I was so excited to read this book. I saved it for my vacation to read it without any distractions. What a mistake! I am a Realtor and was thinking it would be really fun to read a book from another point of view. This book was a mess. It was such a slow read and I just could not get into Daum's thought process. I have my obsession with houses and thought I'd be able to indentify with her....nope. I have been trying to force myself to finish this book - I have actually challenged myself.So bummed that it was soooo not what I anticipated. Based on the other reviews I think I must be the one that is not getting this or I am truding through a different book.I have never written a review (I am sure that is obvious) but felt strongly enough about this one to post one.

5.0 out of 5 stars Life would be perfect if I had another book like this one

K.C. · April 28, 2020

This is a wonderful memoir! I enjoyed the wit, the honesty, the insights--and could relate to all of them . Daum has a true sense of the feminine psyche. It's so pleasant to read about a woman you really like. I'd like more books just like this one!

Five Stars

Y. · January 26, 2017

I really enjoy reading this book.

super book

S.S. · January 29, 2021

An amazing book about the obsession of house hunting. Very much relatable for me

Four Stars

a.r. · April 16, 2015

A fascinating study of obsession, this gripping book cast HGTV in a whole new light for me.

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Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House: A Memoir

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Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House: A Memoir

Product ID: U0307454843

Condition: New

4.1

Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House: A Memoir-0

Type: Paperback

^AED95³⁸

Price includes VAT & Import Duties

Availability: In Stock

Quantity:

Order today to get by 7-14 business days

Delivery fee of AED 20. Free for orders above AED 200.

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Imported From: United States

At BOLO, we work hard to ensure the products you receive are new, genuine, and sourced from reputable suppliers.

Your trust is our top priority, and we are committed to maintaining transparency and integrity in every transaction.

Unless otherwise stated, all prices displayed on the product page include applicable taxes and import duties.

All items are shipped by air, and any products classified as “Dangerous Goods (DG)” under IATA regulations will be removed from the order and cancelled.

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About the Author

Reviews:

5.0 out of 5 stars Why Hasn't Anyone Explained this Before?

I.A. · May 7, 2010

4.0 out of 5 stars I could not put it down!

J.C. · October 11, 2016

3.0 out of 5 stars Not for me, but well written

S.K.M. · July 21, 2010

5.0 out of 5 stars A life you can relate to--even if you don't want to admit it

A. · January 19, 2015

5.0 out of 5 stars THIS BOOK IS SO VERY FUNNY I LOVED IT. ALOT.

V.T. · July 22, 2015

4.0 out of 5 stars Life Would be Perfect _____ Fill in the Blanks

K.U. · May 12, 2010

2.0 out of 5 stars So Underwhelmed!

G. · September 8, 2010

5.0 out of 5 stars Life would be perfect if I had another book like this one

K.C. · April 28, 2020

Five Stars

Y. · January 26, 2017

I really enjoy reading this book.

super book

S.S. · January 29, 2021

An amazing book about the obsession of house hunting. Very much relatable for me

Four Stars

a.r. · April 16, 2015

A fascinating study of obsession, this gripping book cast HGTV in a whole new light for me.

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