Sunday, October 21, 2012

bleak house

The 1970s was a great decade for mobile homes.

How do I know? I know because there were so many of them advertised for sale this summer on Infomall, this region's preferred alternative to kijiji.

We looked at four before settling on the one we're living in now.

The first, which we visited three times, discouraged and frightened me. The roof clearly leaked, there was rot beneath some of the windows where water had made an entrance, and it was filthy. That the South African Hottie saw potential in it just worried me more. I couldn't believe he could imagine living there, or that he'd expect me to accept such conditions.

The kitchen was beyond small. There was a short counter, a stove, a fridge, and a few cupboards, but there could never be more than two people in the room at one time.

The front room wasn't so bad. The windows allowed the bright sunshine to come in, nearly tricking me into wanting to spend time there. The rear of the trailer, where the bedrooms were, had the opposite effect, however. Each of the two rooms were small, horribly carpeted, and dingy.

I wanted so much better than that. It probably didn't help that at the time we were living in a house needing only very slight changes.

That place had shiny hardwood floors throughout. It had two bathrooms, one with a giant whirlpool bath (true, the jets didn't work, but its depth made up for the loss), the other with a shower so small I usually bumped an elbow or a knee while washing, but it had a massive cupboard that I adored. Even better, this bathroom was an en suite, making nighttime pee breaks a breeze.

The kitchen had more space than I could fill. I've never met another human being who could say that.

The living room was perfectly sized for our bulky, three-piece furniture set and a 50-inch LED TV. The two spare bedrooms were in use as a computer room and an exercise room, respectively.

The house was clean, well-lit, had a decent deck and backyard.... I could have stayed, if it weren't for the noise from everywhere around us, including downstairs, where our landlord and his new bride lived and held daily yelling sessions.

And so we looked at dirty, run-down, mobile fixer-uppers.

The first was for sale for $7,000 or 'best offer'. After seeing it, the SAH thought we could get it for $2,000.

Yep. Two thousand dollars.

If that doesn't tell you what it looked like, nothing can. After all, I didn't take pictures of it, despite the repeated visits. Taking photos would have implied I could imagine living there.

I was discouraged, but I didn't have to be. The owners saved me from this particular fate by sabotaging their own sale.

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