Oh no she didn't

Five hours. Yeah. Our house is small, but the inspector spent five hours on it and produced twenty-eight pages of exceptionally detailed notes. Contrast this to the four pages of notes that we received from the inspector who examined the property when we bought it.

Oh, and did I mention that we, the sellers, got to shell out the 300 bucks for this most recent inspection — just as we did two years ago before closed on the place? The first 300 we might as well have flushed down the toilet. For the record, never, ever have a home inspected when A) you’re eleven states away; and B) the inspector is the seller’s old boyfriend.

It’s fine that the more recent inspector is thorough. And while he turned up many, many alarming observations (“One day, your slab-foundation garage could submit to frost heave.”), none of his items were all that scary.

Save for one.

Adam and I had noticed that oddly notched beam in the basement a few days after we moved in. It was right over a spot once occupied by the seller’s treadmill, and she had apparently hacked out a portion of a beam to allow clearance for her head.

Adam was nervous. “Do you think that’s a weight-bearing beam?”

Since Adam is often nervous, I fell right into my role as the giver of assurances.

“No! I’m sure she never would have taken a saw to a beam without making sure it was safe first. And, besides, the inspector would have said something.”

Oh no he wouldn’t. And oh yes she did.

So now, the new inspector tells us, the kitchen floor is in danger of collapse.

“Good thing you’re a pair of lightweights,” he grins. “No jumping jacks until the carpenters get here, okay?”

Fucking hilarious.