In September 1995 on a random drive-by situation, I saw a man place a FOR SALE sign in the yard of a cute little house near the University of Oklahoma. I arranged for my sister-in-law of six months to check out the place with me. I loved it straight away, but didn’t have in mind buying it. I did think it would be a good way to get Handsome Hubster out from underfoot while I set up his surprise birthday kegger, so I set up a date for him and his sister to check the place out. Here, you can check it out too:
See? I did not lie. The house was built in 1930 and has a gas fire place, wood floors throughout, and all the odd characteristics of an older home. When Hubster and SIL arrived at the party after seeing the house, a fifty eleven people yelled, “Happy birthday!” and Hubster said, “We gotta buy that house.” “Seriously, dude. Happy birthday.” “I’m telling you I want that house.” I looked at SIL. She nodded in agreement. Damn! The party wasn’t enough; he wanted a whole house!
Buying a home wasn’t on my radar. Besides, my new husband and I were flat busted broke, as always. What I didn’t know is that this home was picked up by a prospector for a song. The previous occupants, by legend, were fans of hookers and blow (that phrasing is for you Jacques, but it’s also true). Also, the house hadn’t even been listed so we sorta got in at a good time.
We put in a ridiculously low offer – $54.6K, seller pay closing costs and refinish the floors, retile the kitchen, mud room, and baths, paint the whole thing inside and out, and install new kitchen cabinets and appliances. That moron took our offer. We waited five months to close, but in the end the house was ours. I planted azaleas. Aren’t they lovely?
Yes, they are. Take another look. Green grass, pecan tree, cute as a button home-sweet-home. My mother-in-law lives there and takes immaculate care of the place. I look forward to seeing it again. I’m going home. I’ll let you know when.