I feel totally fine buying things, as long as I do my research first. That’s why, after ten minutes at an open house, I’m now completely comfortable going into debt for the next thirty years.
Before I bought a used car, I read twenty-six reviews of that specific make, model, and year, written by twenty-six different car experts. I studied every detail of the Carfax. I test-drove the car four times, including once with my mechanic and once with my mechanic’s mechanic.
It makes sense to spend the equivalent of fifty-five cars for a house that, at least between 2:34 p.m. and 2:44 p.m. on a Saturday, smells only slightly bad.
I recently bought a humidifier too. I cross-checked the Wirecutter recommendation with customers’ Amazon reviews. My cousin, who has the same humidifier, outlined the pros and cons for me. I ultimately bought it because it has a ninety-day satisfaction-guaranteed return policy. I don’t need a satisfaction guarantee on this house, though, because the realtor will give me a piece of paper where the previous owner will promise, on the honor system, that the roof doesn’t leak much.
Just last night, I bought myself takeout. Or, more accurately, I spent so much time reading Yelp reviews and looking at menus and then reading the individual mini-reviews for each dish that I got too hungry and had to eat microwaved canned soup and sliced white bread. Today, I have no doubts about paying 314,000 cans of soup for the privilege of living in this house, which I haven’t slept in once, for the rest of my entire life.
After all, I walked through it once, opened every closet door, and nodded solemnly at each. I determined, based on a two-second glance and optimism, that the wall between the living room and dining room isn’t load-bearing. As the bank draws up a cashier’s check for the down payment, reducing my account to zero, I won’t wonder whether the regular high-pitched shrieks I heard during the open house were emitted by a soon-to-be neighbor or the house’s poltergeist.
I’m sure I can convert the toolshed I think I glimpsed in the backyard into a modest Airbnb, which will raise money for renovations and an exorcism.
As someone who carefully researches every consumer choice, I appreciate how the open house has allowed me to make an informed decision. For example, I learned that this house has a powder room with moldy wallpaper that will likely peel right off, and a toilet that probably flushes. So I’m telling the realtor to offer twice the asking price, also known as 267 times my monthly salary.
You know what? It’s such a competitive market: I’ll also promise the seller my firstborn baby. I’ll be too busy with renovations to protect a child from the poltergeist anyway.
Besides, according to my split-second eyeball guesstimates at the open house, the bedroom doesn’t have enough space for a crib.
