But it doesn't matter much
Dream house will have to remain in the realm of fantasy. Further inspections uncovered a rotten trove of unappetizing problems--soggy window casings, improperly installed stucco flashing, drainage issues, sewer issues, electrical issues, furnace issues, roof deck issues and even a nice big damp patch on the eighteen-foot ceiling of the living room. Apparently, the last inspection was done in late October of last year, before any significant rain visited the area. The property stager had the temerity to hide a large, discolored, efflorescing water stain on one of the landing walls with a gilt mirror; I only noticed because the picture hanger holding up the mirror had come halfway out of the wall--a result of the decay caused by the damp.
We are sad to let go of the vision we had of ourselves, and particularly of Olivia, in that house, in that yard, going to that elementary school. But we are glad we didn’t end up with an elderly 2800-square-foot Mediterranean albatross that might strain us to the breaking point.
I find that I mind losing this house a lot less than I would have thought. It seems, well, not exactly insignificant, but not really compelling, either. Maybe it’s partly the distraction of the nausea and everything it represents; maybe it’s the even larger distraction of Olivia. Maybe it’s the fact that I just can’t slow down enough to really consider the ramifications: Will it be another eight months of fruitless searching? If we fail to find a suitable place, how will we cope with two babies and a daytime nanny in our tiny house? (Yes, jumping the gun, but we are in a position in which we have to plan for the possibility that this one will really happen—that we’ll have a newborn come September.)
Speaking of which, appointment tomorrow. 10W2D. Not sure what to expect; hoping for a scan.