Yesterday I sat in the middle of the empty living room at our "new" condo, imagining furniture placement and enjoying watching the way the sunlight flooded the carpet. After measuring kitchen shelves, I relaxed for a few minutes and became fascinated with the light patterns on the walls. Periodically I’d wander about another room to satisfy my internal questions—how big is that closet? is there an outlet on the stair-landing? would the little mahogany chest fit on that wall?. Just think, I told myself, this fascinating home will be mine soon! Hard to believe we had finally found something we both wanted to live in after looking almost a year for "the right place."
All the while I measured and mused, the home inspector did his thing. That's why we were there. I would measure, make a floor plan, and muse; Hubby would shadow the inspector. For almost three hours Hubby did just that: listening and learning about the outer and inner workings of the house. Oh, the inspector looked at a lot of items visible-to-me, too—the stove, the dishwasher, the furnace and its thermostat, microwave, disposal—and checked out everything to make sure they worked OK. He was thorough, pleasant and professional.
The inspector found some areas of concern in the 'bowels' of the house. When he showed us pictures of what he’d found in the crawlspace, Hubby frowned—fully understanding their implications. I was oblivious and spent the evening imagining where I would hang pictures and store my dishes. Hubby, on the other hand, thought through the remedies and repercussions of the inspector's findings. This morning we got a final written report with details and photo corroboration of what the inspector saw. Problems. Now we have some serious stuff to sort through.