Maybe it’s just me, but trying to find one perfect house in the Emerald City recently seemed a LOT like life in a fairytale. This one’s too old, that one’s too small. This one’s too musty, that one’s WAY too expensive.
That one’s built in 1962, and this one has a neighborhood I’m SURE I saw on COPS last week. This one has a hot tub the exact same color as the orange shag carpet, and that one has a biohazard sticker ON THE BASEMENT DOOR.
Dorothy journeyed the entire length of the Land of OZ and killed a witch to find her way home, finding in the end that all she really needed to do was give the idiot behind the curtain a kick in the butt and tell him to GET ON IT.
Over the course of seven progressively worse days, we saw every craptastic, overpriced house between Monroe and Renton and watched as the only one we could even consider was sold to someone else within 12 hours. Needless to say, we were more than a little hacked with our ‘great OZ’. Taking care to be as clear as possible, my husband made sure OZ understood we wouldn’t hesitate to drop a house on HIM if the results didn’t improve, pronto.
Within three clicks of our heels, we found ourselves in charming little Maple Valley. And amazingly enough, we found a brand new house, just days from completion and with a price we wouldn’t need a second mortgage for. Highway 18 shoots my husband straight into work and on the off hours, Bellevue is just 30 minutes away for me.
Hey ho, the witch is dead, baby. There’s no place like home.
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