I thought it best to make my inaugural post to this blog tonight, as the home inspection on my very first house is at 10AM tomorrow. Well, 10AM today, technically, but as I said - I thought it best to make my inaugural post before the inspection! And I haven't slept yet, so it still counts.
What am I hoping for at the inspection? The same thing that every home-buyer, especially first-timers, hope for - a glowing report describing my potential residence as a worry-free domestic dream. But the plain reality of the situation is that it simply isn't going to happen. I'm not going to get what I want. Every home has problems. This is true regardless of whether you're buying a hot new-construction condo, a Victorian mansion, or - in my case - a little brick townhouse built right on the edge of Philadelphia during the post-war boom.
Cute, right? I certainly think so.
Don't let appearances deceive you, though. This house was built in the 1950s, decorated during the 1970s, and hasn't been updated since. Guests walk through the front door to be greeted to not only wood paneling as far as the eye can see, but wood paneling paired with Pepto-pink-turned-faded-salmon-pinkish-brown carpet that, frankly, smells a little funny. This breath-taking decor continues on into the dining room, from which the kitchen - and its glorious grey and orange tile - can be viewed. Separating the two rooms is a greasy-spoon diner style counter, to which has been added a number of white shelves boasting their very own - I kid you not! - glow in the dark statuette of the Virgin Mary.
What can I say? I have spectacular taste. And seriously, I love that tacky Mary more than words can possibly convey. We may just have to keep it.
Continuing upstairs, we have yet more wood panels in each of the three bedrooms. Not only does it cover the walls, but it seems that some enterprising couple at least two owners prior decided they were so fond of the brown-on-brown scheme that they actually attached it to the back of what otherwise seemed to be beautiful, solid-wood doors with those wonderful, old-fashioned glass handles. I can't say I blame them. Once you close the door to any of the three rooms, it really completes that "trapped inside a corrugated cardboard box" feeling. Farrah Fawcett would feel right at home.
Finishing off the upstairs is a surprisingly immaculate bathroom. The tub is positively pristine. It's also a particularly eye-searing shade of turquoise which, when combined with the Pepto-pink (that color! again!) tile and complimentary turquoise and pink wallpaper, makes it look sort of like the newborn department of a Babies 'R Us exploded in one very small room. There's even a blue sink and blue toilet to match!
(Hint: The number of exclamation points in the above paragraph indicate that I am REALLY EXCITED about the retina-imploding horror that is this bathroom.)
Continuing down into the (sort of?) finished basement, there's - you guessed it - more wood paneling, as well as asbestos tile coating the floors. Though it's an unfortunate combination of yellow, orange, and tan, it fortunately isn't friable and therefore shouldn't be a health hazard. The look is completed by a washer and dryer that's probably as old as I am and an exterior door with a particularly special paisley-and-bright-yellow-flowers motif to the curtain covering it.
Still, there's something about this house that says home to me, even with all of the cosmetic nightmares that it presents. It feels solid. It feels right. It feels like buried deep under that "My Mother's High School Wardrobe Crawled in Here and Died" decor, there's good bones, a solid foundation, and a place I can call my own.
Let's hope the inspector agrees.
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