Renting has gotten old. As the pain of my previous home-owning experience fades from glaring beacon of folly into finely resolved lessons learned, my lovely bride, full of patience, wisdom, and desire to indulge her home-improvement-show fantasies, suggested that now may be the time to go about buying a little piece of Texas to call our own.

And so, after poring over hundreds of listings, calling upon our realator friend, tromping about other people's yards and bedrooms, and at least one close call, we've found ourselves a home. The evening I spotted the listing online, we drove by to see it. She called it The Gingerbread House, for the slightly-too-precious architectural details of the facade. It's my brother's age, built in '83. The exterior has grey brick and siding, with crimson accents. The lot is small, as is the structure, a hair over 1300 square feet. Enough space for the two of us, the critters, and our collection of assorted objects. The interior was painted in anticipation of sale, a slightly darker than medium tan. The floors are tiled in a sandy hue, except in the bedrooms, which have a light berber carpeting. The garage has been converted, and will be converted back before too long. The inspector's list of problems is mercifully brief; primarily, the water heater needs seeing-to, and the oven is hosed. Otherwise, it's full speed ahead to Mortgage City for us.

See photos of the new Chez Taylor over in snap.

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