The Red Hot Smoking Deal

My dad is a man who manages to find the best deal in town no matter what he's buying. And when the deal is especially good, he appears to transform into some marketplace sheenie right before your eyes.

This house that we bought was the Red Hot Smoking Deal that, according to my father, could simply not be passed up. So sure was he of its value, he announced upon our first viewing of it that if we did not want it, he was going to buy it and turn it into a rental. No pressure, though, he said.

Brent is a wise enough, and malleable enough, guy that he basically finds whatever my dad says to be liquid gold. Thus, everything else we looked at was compared to this...RHSD. It was such a RHSD, that no matter what the merits of the other houses we visited were, we could not (and by we, I mean Brent) in good conscience buy anything else.

Let me tell you something...when I first stepped foot in this house, I HATED it. Too angular. Too sterile. Too god-awful ugly with its clashing color scheme (easily remedied with paint, I know) and shabby attempts to upgrade with half-baked workmanship. Every remaining light fixture (the previous owners stripped the house of almost anything of value before moving out, including the kitchen appliances) and outlet plate was different and oft times tragically dated. And the yard - gopher-infested dirt mounds.

I really disliked my dad, briefly, for getting into Brent's head like that. All our negotiations kept returning to PPF (price per square foot) and nothing in town could beat this RHSD. Not even close.

And now, I must admit, I love the place. Over the next several posts I'll explain why. It all started by tearing out a pantry and moving a doorway...