Open Concept

     “Wow, I was really hoping for granite.”

     “Well I was really hoping your husband had a better job.”

     “I know we were looking for character, but this new construction is really growing on me.”

     “Oh really, Cindy? Maybe you don’t actually have any preferences at all, and have just always done what your mother says like when you married Jim!”

     Few pleasures compare to the catharsis offered by shouting obscenities at House Hunters while hopelessly couch-bound. The silent invitation to offer constant, critical feedback to seemingly innocent couples looking for a sweet three-bedroom in suburban Cincinnati is one I accept with enthusiasm. The view from the sidelines is always the clearest.

     The romantically ambiguous couples are the most enthralling to witness. They appear every few episodes, rare diamonds in the rough, ripe for scrutiny and speculation. Stephanie is looking for the perfect home for “herself” to live in, and her “friend” John is “tagging along” to “help her.” I take a sip of my wine.

     There’s no countertop hard enough to hit you in the head and tell you he’s not going to propose, girl.

     The most abhorrent displays of human impulsivity are laid bare in the program’s international edition, where people who have built entire lives decide to “leave behind everything they know” and pursue “new horizons” with “just their savings,” crafting masterful plans to “home school” their children and “finally find time again.”

     All that money could also go towards some very, very high quality therapy, Stella. I’m not saying…I’m just saying.

     The television-engineered bleach-washing of the process is the most deceivingly reassuring element of the show. A lovely couple is introduced to us, statistical needs laid bare, and presented with three appropriate housing options. And in a civil conversation over mimosas and scones, one property is selected. Before the half hour is over, we witness people go from periods of varying discontent to a singular state of staggering certainty.

     There is no addressing of their self-destructive behaviors, no attention paid to underlying resentment towards their spouse, and no suggestion that maybe they’re just buying this house to prove childhood foes wrong. There’s no reckoning with inner demons, no reference to plaguing world issues, and no acknowledgment that Brenda never even wanted to move to Milwaukee in the first place. For half an hour, it’s really about the granite, the open concept, the stainless steel. That’s all they’re looking for.

     I look on, speculating.