Allergies

Last Saturday, Tessa showed Marty and I an investment home. I warned her ahead of time, we were only marginally interested. To be fair, this part of "We" was the marginally. Marty came along for the ride. 

The house was in Wake Village, right across the street from City Hall. It was one of the original World War 2 homes, used to house soldiers working at the local army depot. The current owner slapped some paint on the walls and rolled vinyl onto the floors. That was good enough for Tessa, who stuck a sign in the yard.   

Here was my original thinking: I could use one bedroom for my sewing and rent out the other two bedrooms Air BnB style (like for $29 a night). I didn't need to make too much off of it, only enough to pay expenses. I'd break even, if between the two rooms, they were rented for 10 days each month. That's it: and should give you an idea of what kind of neighborhood it is in. The rest of the time, I'd have a tax-deductible she-shed. 

However, the house was so bad and the neighbors were so much worse that even Tessa, one of those big-haired, high-heeled agents who always has her phone in her hand trying to make a deal, wasn't trying to sugar-coat this place--not that it mattered. As soon as I walked in, I started sneezing. I didn't stop until Tessa locked the door on our way out. 

It is quite possible I was allergic to something inside the property. It is even more possible I'm allergic to sinking my life savings into that 1941 money pit that's being held together by duct tape and Texas mud.