The moment of truth arrived for the wife and I as potential property owners this past Saturday; the dreaded home inspection. The first few times we walked into the house we were awash in euphoria and statements like “We could put our [furniture piece] in this corner” or “We could do [short-term project that will turn into a long-term project] this summer.” The reckoning arrived in the form of an elderly gentlemen with shaky hands and a red Geo Metro. Being as the home inspection is a make-or-break affair, I called in Big Guns (read: my Dad) to tag along while the inspector eviscerated our future residence. My old man is the working class hero of North Metro Denver, somewhat akin to Bruce Springsteen minus the gravely voice and the E-Street Band. Whenever something breaks, my Dad “Has a guy” for it. Usually that guy has a blue collar handle like Jimbo or Murph and will charge you little to no labor costs to fix the problem. The inspector was a friendly and competent man, and aside from my Dad correcting him about an electrical box and aluminum wiring being legal for certain types of jobs, he wrote a fine report. He mentioned on numerous occasions that the house was “well built” and “has good guts.” Aside from some leaky gutters, a pipe that needs tightening, a sewer line scoping and siphon valves that need to be installed on the sprinkler system, the future homestead is in solid working order. On a related note my Dad just sent over a quote this morning that his sprinkler guy Bruno gave him to install the siphon valves. He agreed to do most of the work for cost.
Me: The wife and I are moving out of the hood, Joey.
Gay Joe: No way. Are you moving over to Castlegate to run your meth dealing ring from within?
Me: No. We got a house. We put an offer in last Wednesday, got countered on Thursday and we accepted. We now have three mortgages and can officially be called “slumlords.” We may own the whole goddamn town home complex if you are not careful.
Gay Joe: Want to buy my place?
Me: Maybe. Think we can wash the gay off the walls?
Gay Joe: No. That is the selling point, jackass.
Me: “For rent: 2 bedroom suburban town house. Doubles as homosexual circus tent and semen repository.”
Gay Joe: “Home already part of metro area orgy circuit. Ideal for those already suffering from syphilitic dementia.”
Gay Joe: Replace “suffering from” with “enjoying.”
Me: Depending on who we are targeting.
Gay Joe: “Bush-bottoms welcome at double rent.”
Me: “Bear lovers encouraged.”
Gay Joe: I would actually prohibit bear lovers and pets. Too much hair. Anyway, congrats on the new house. Looks nice.
Me: Thanks, killer.
The wife and I have spent the past month and a half looking for a house all over Denver and her surrounding suburbs. We have seen our share of some awful, filthy and disgusting properties. Any one who has ever shopped for real estate knows the market is rife with run-down hell holes, terrible design choices (such as flowered wallpaper and faux wood paneling), homes that haven’t been updated since the Kennedy administration and box elder bug infestations that would make the scene in Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom look like amateur hour. This past weekend we finally walked into a house and felt like we were “home”. We made an offer on Wednesday and the offer was countered last night, being upped a few grand and the sellers agreeing to cover the closing costs (buyers market, yo). We gladly accepted because the house is the tits; 2500 square feet (3100 if you count the unfinished basement), updated dumpers, counter tops and lighting, over sized two car garage and air conditioning. Assuming the inspection goes well we move in on March 31. I intend to do a naked moonlight ass-walk on the deck off the master suite on night one. You know, to set the tone.