Today, I’m going to share a tale of buying an older home and our fixer-upper fiasco. With leaks that could rival the Caspian Sea, floorboards so rotten you’d think they were hummus gone bad, and a boiler that decided retirement was for wimps. If our lives were a movie, it would be “The Money Pit: The Sequel,” starring yours truly and my DIY-champion husband, H.
Living In A Time Capsule
From day one, it was clear our fixer-upper was determined to give us a taste of what it felt like to live in a historical relic. But it wasn’t all Persian rugs and exotic spices. Our house fell apart faster than a sandcastle in a monsoon.
You see, our fixer-upper was not just any house; it was the former residence of my gran (Maman Bozorgh). The house hadn’t been touched since the 1970s, and Maman Bozorgh’s essence lingered in every nook and cranny. It was like living in a time capsule, where every room was a chapter from her autobiography.
Maman Bozorgh’s Legacy
Our mission became clear: preserve the essence of Maman Bozorgh’s legacy while dragging the decor into the 21st Century. It was a delicate dance between paying homage to the past and convincing the house that the ’70s were long gone.
Fast forward seven years, and we had become the reigning champions of gutting. Ceilings? Down. Radiators? Out. Plumbing, heating, and electrical systems? We practically had a PhD in all of them. Forget showering at home – we were on a first-name basis with the gym showers. I’m convinced we financed half the gym’s renovations with our memberships.
Dancing With Decorators’ Caulk
As we danced the tango with decorators’ caulk and made sweet love to masking tape and plasterboard, we realised we’d forgotten what it meant to have a life outside of renovations. Our social life was non-existent.
Cleaning became our second full-time job, as we prepared the house for potential buyers. Sometimes they stood us up, treating our house like a Persian catwalk they decided not to grace with their presence. Other times, they’d show up only to mock our beloved property. And then, there were the investors – the less said about them, the better. Let’s just say, dealing with them was like trying to negotiate with a used camel salesman.
But after what felt like a Persian eternity, our blood, sweat, and decorator’s caulk finally paid off. We transformed our dilapidated dwelling into a Persian palace, fit for a king – or at least a moderately wealthy landlord. And as we bid farewell to the last remnants of the ’70s, we couldn’t help but wonder if Maman Bozorgh’s spirit approved of our efforts to revive her former palace.
So, if you ever find yourself knee-deep in a fixer-upper fiasco, just remember: it might take seven years, an ocean of tears, and an unhealthy obsession with caulk, but eventually, you too can have an old home to call your own.
Khodaa Haafez! (Goodbye)
If you enjoyed our Persian-infused home improvement saga, grab a cup of chai and click here for more tales from the Persian Pit of Property Pandemonium. Until next time, may your home be cosy and your caulk be ever pliable! Khodaa Haafez!