Stairway To Hell

Most entrances to hell lead down. This one leads up.

This entrance was the byproduct of a cheesy 1980s home renno that converted a 1920s Tudor from a one story charmer, into a two story monster.

The beautiful oak stairway invitingly sits a few feet from the front door and graces everyone with its presence...

“Hello,” it says. “Care to take a stroll up to Heaven?”

“Wait!,” I say. "I need you to sign a small release form... if you really want to go up there.”

“Release form? For what?”

“To ensure that you will not repeat a word of this to anyone!”

"What’s wrong?"

“You’ll see.”

Meet And Greet Hell

It was 2005 and I was making the second largest decision of my life. I had yearned to live in the much sought-after part of town flanked by tree covered streets. Old architecture from the 20s and 30s. A time that was lost, but found in Dallas, Texas – the Capital of concrete highways, byways and strip malls galore.

My Realtor said “if you can get past the upstairs, you’ll love the house.” Ready for a challenge, I was eager to meet my potential match. I did. And I fell in crazy, stupid love.

Somehow I was able to look past all the unfortunate neglect that two back-to-back foreclosures can bestow on a soul (read more here and here). I was able to see something beyond the here and now. Worst off, I could see potential.

After a brief bidding war with an investor who had already drawn-up floor plans to scrape off the upstairs hack-job and rebuild a full, "real" second story, the home was surprisingly mine. I beat him by no more than a $7,000 spread. While I was excited, little did I realize at the time, but I had just purchased a three-headed baby devil. "Oh, Shit!" is an understatement.

Angle Angel

The upstairs is wildly wacky. It is the original attic for the home and has what I call a “modified bump-out” home improvement that extended the back of the roof line out, oh, maybe 5 feet. Why bother, right?

The result? Angled ceilings perfect for a child-sized person, but a little uncomfortable for humans over 4 feet tall (picture scraping your head on the sloped ceiling as you run for your life to escape). It’s impossible to hang a picture on the wall, unless you have a lot of nails and Super Glue. I’m not sure what the inventors of the upstairs abode had in mind, but from where I tried to stand, if they were shooting for the gateway to hell, they score perfect marks.

Hello, Hot Box

As days turned weeks turned summer, it came time to power-up the AC. It didn’t take long to realize that when outside temperatures started to rise, so too did the hell-like conditions upstairs. The poor AC system was just too weak to keep the 1,500 square foot pleasure palace cool.

By August when the electric bill hit $500, I knew I had to try and convert Satan’s easy bake oven into livable space. Little did I know how it would involve thousands of dollars, over 5 years of trial and error and consume my soul in the process.

Try Hard. Fall Harder.

Aside from setting the house on fire and starting over, I've tried everything I can afford at the recommendation of "the experts":

~ Install a new outside condensor – No impact.
~ Install a second thermostat and damper system to better regulate the upstairs/downstairs – I lose again.
~ How about new $12,000 double-paned windows – Nuh uh!
~ The obvious new insulation and new air ducts? – Not even that.

I've had countless air companies out to access the situation and actually had three who refused the work... and my money.

One guy believed the air handler was installed into the house and then the wall was conveniently built just 1 foot from the system. He likened trying to service the air handler like to trying to work on your car engine while only being able to raise the hood 3 inches. Not possible.

Totally Baked

So there I was – and still am – sweating. Sweating over what to do. Sweating over where to go next (a hotel?). Sweating as I open each new electric bill and dreadfully find the amount due. And sweating when I force myself to finally write each check to my smiling electric company.

Some days I sit in my hot box and wonder why I’m being punished for loving this house. I question how I was able to look past all the neglect and shoddy home improvements. I wonder why my inspector didn’t catch any of this but then again, he missed the active termite colony in the detached garage, which resulted in a $40,000 tear-down and rebuild.

I watch the thermostat top-out at 99 degrees, like it did today, and wonder what the “true” temperature is since I don’t have a triple-digit thermostat. I wonder what thrives in this kind of heat besides cacti and popcorn.

My greatest fear?

Not being able to sell this soul sucker* before Satan, victor, adds me to his list of greatest accomplishments as I finally combust in the heat of my personal hell on Earth...

...Consumer Victim Style!


* To quote Angela Arden: "I hate this house! I hate these walls... I hate that sofa! The only part of this dump that doesn't make me puke is that door ~ because that's the way I'm gettin' out!"