Want to buy a house? It's in a great neighborhood. In walking distance of excellent schools. It's three stories, 23 rooms, five baths and six fireplaces. It's got a sunroom, a library, a large porch, a finished basement, a wine cellar, servant quarters in the attic and a chauffeur's apartment above the large garage. A huge lot.

That may sound like a bit more house than you need. But say you've got seven kids. That's not even four rooms per kid. Still too big? Yeah, somebody is going to have to clean it. And it's in Massachusetts, so in the winter it's going to be a monthly fortune to heat. It's not exactly air-tight. On a windy day, you can fly a kite in the living room. And then there's the grounds. Lots of grass to cut, leaves to rake, bushes to trim, and snow to remove — not shovel, please, God — on a driveway the size of a small aircraft carrier.

Don't worry about the upkeep on the house, though. The old owners never did, why should you? From the outside, it's going to look like you're rich. Which means thieves will try to break in. And a six-year-old with a butter knife could jimmy open any of the five entrances.

This was my father's dream house. When he was a kid, he'd walk by it and fantasize of what it would be like to live in such a palace. His mother cleaned other people's houses, but none of them were nearly this grand. My dad worked hard and developed a solid career, and in his mid-forties, he bought that dream house for $43,000. Even back then, that was cheap. It was too big, with too much wear and tear. And far too much upkeep. Nobody with any sense wanted the place. Not that my father lacked sense. But dreams can cloud reality. And, in this case, hide cracked stucco, rattling windows, an ancient furnace, etc. etc. etc. Still, with seven kids, it made sense. Sort of.

From any room in the house, you could ring a bell and a display would let the servants know just where you wanted them. All we needed were the servants. And the money to pay them. What we had instead was my mother, and whatever reluctant child labor that wasn't more trouble than it was worth. She called the place The Monstrosity — and with magic markers and duct tape and a ton of ingenuity, she kept things mostly intact. If NASA had known about her, we'd have gotten to the moon five years earlier at a tenth the cost.

The house provided the outdoor and, sometimes, the indoor venue for thousands of wiffle ball, street hockey, basketball and football games. My mother could repair a broken window — or in one case, a chandelier — so quickly I doubt my father ever saw one broken. (Many years later, he reluctantly sold the house, never realizing the chandelier was Scotch-taped together.)

I owe that place a lot. Maybe having had that impressive house growing up — impressive from the outside anyway, big and frayed on the inside — is part of the reason I never needed to own a big house, or a luxury car or impressive clothes for my unimpressive body. I could sleep on the beach or live out of a van or in a rented room and I was perfectly fine. This allowed me to set out in life the way I wanted to.

The Monstrosity may have even cured me of the need to be seen as a solid citizen. Though I guess I accidentally became one anyway. And today I have a little money in the bank and a home in Santa Barbara with a view spectacular enough that it got me to spend a whole lot more than I ever expected to spend on a house. But it's a 1,900 square foot PUD. With a one-car garage and no way to summon any imaginary servants. FYI, a PUD is like a condo, but if the house takes off down the hill, we still own the land. Which, in California, is quite handy. Yesterday, I caught my wife repairing the wooden blinds with dental floss. I'm home.

Check out Barry Maher's dark humor, supernatural thriller, "The Great Dick: And the Dysfunctional Demon" www.barrymaher.com.

To find out more about Barry Maher and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: Fabian Wiktor at Unsplash