My first thought was that it was ugly. And wrong. The house was ugly and wrong. Six years ago, standing on the curb, a baby on each hip, a ten-year-old by my side, in the shade of a FOR SALE sign, all I could think was: What an ugly, wrong house. A rambling 8,400-square-foot behemoth the color of pea soup, it was a mess, an illogical pairing of design styles. The front had a Santa Barbara mission façade, complete with hulking dark-wood balconies. The back was light, distinctly Italian with ornate archways and carved stone. It was as if the powers that be had, on a whim, sliced two different homes down the middle and glued opposing halves together. The result was too off-kilter to be considered quirky and too confusing to be deemed eccentric. Things were only slightly better inside. With their original doors and moldings, the living room and library were stunning. But most of the rooms were devoid of sunlight and had doors in problematic places. Wrong, I muttered to myself. And ugly. Why would I want this wrong, ugly house? Because I did want it. I wanted it badly.
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