Ah, House #8. Let's have a moment of silence for House #8............................................................
Our inspection Wednesday lasted a whopping 30 minutes, terminated prematurely when ourinspector ran screaming out of the basement. B ran after him, tackled him in the street, only to find the man's hair had turned white. Let's have a moment of silence for the inspector, shall we? ........................................... I've heard he'll make a full recovery. He managed to blink out the message (in morse code) that there were some issues with the foundation.
Although the seller's agent helpfully suggested the seller himself was a structural engineer and would be glad to tell us the house's structure was fine, we declined. Instead, we brought our own structural engineer, complete with a bag of Xanax, yesterday for another looksee. Turns out House #8 is the structural equivalent of a moon-bounce house you rent for kid's birthday parties. That's good news for the sellers since they WILL NEVER SELL THIS HOUSE!
The engineer did price out the repairs for us and we were like, "No Thanks, Boss. We're reproductively challenged, so we actually need that money for baby-making."
Oh, and it turns out the seller is actually a chemical engineer, not a structural engineer. Which is the same diff, according to their lamesauce agent. You can take your fugly kitchen moon-bouncy house and shove it. (Sorry for the hostility, they were just real jerks about the whole thing)
So, after much fist-shaking at the sky, B & I are starting to think we kind of like the Number 9. Nine, nine, nine. Which I think means "No" in German. But I'll just ignore that. Nine might just be my lucky number...
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