Metaphors, Analogies and Life Oh My! -OR- Belt AND Suspenders

We bought our first home in 1988. Old timers thought we were crazy. At the time, the OTers outnumbered us 10-1. Our 18 month-old daughter and son on the way were the only kids on the block. By son's arrival two more younger couples moved in. By the following summer there were 7 kids on the block.

The house we bought had "issues". The town we bought in had a process that sought to bring housing up to code before transfer. It wasn't a particularly good process. The seller was responsible for correcting code violations and typically did this in the quickest, most inexpensive way possible. Follow-up inspections were semi-half-hearted. Which means rubber-stamped.

As we tracked the "progress" of our seller's repairs, I freaked out. After a flurry of phone calls involving lawyers and officials, our seller was told not to TOUCH ANYTHING ELSE. I already knew I was getting a house with issues. The purely cosmetic attempts made by the sellers were making our tasks even more daunting.

Adding a layer of paint to surfaces that were to be scraped, repaired or restored simply made no sense. Cladding aluminum flashing to ROTTED porch timbers made them prettier, but did not improve their structural shortcomings.

Note: In hindsight, I grossly underestimated the former owner's ineptitude at basic home maintenance and repair. Since then, every project has dominoed as I've uncovered shortcuts, fudgings, kludges and finagles, but that's what happens when you buy a 100 year-old house.

The point was, we wanted things fixed properly; permanently. And the laundry list that was given to the seller was not going to help us at all.

That's where I see America right now. There's no limit to the damage that can be done between now and the closing on January 20th. I just wish I could call my lawyer.

I've lived that nightmare already.

A final notation to that long ago real estate transaction: On the night of the closing, the seller's 20 year-old son threw a blow-out party at OUR house. It seems Dad lied to us when he handed over the keys.

Caveat Emptor meets Carpe Noctem