Big News!

I'm moving. On a Thursday three weeks ago I put an offer on a home in Calimesa and listed my house for sale. The listing went up on the Multiple Listing Service at 1:00p.m. and the first call requesting a showing came in thirty-five minutes later. They wanted to see the house that night. I actually showed it twice that night. And ten times over the weekend. By Monday we had three offers. I chose the first people because, well, they were first. And we bonded over our love of dogs.

And so for the past three weeks I have been immersed in the dark dank catacombs housed beneath the Institution of Real Estate, signing papers, greeting strangers at my door with a forced smile and allowing them to traipse through my home unsupervised as they inspect and appraise (and scare the cats and the dog), and, of course, signing more papers. (Have you ever carefully looked at a "proceeds sheet"? Man, when you sell a home, it's like you're throwing a party for strangers and everyone gets a piece of the cake. I'm handing money over to people whose faces I will never see for services they performed behind closed doors in an escrow office.)

At first, I was motivated in my packing by two things:

1. I can't wait to move out of this neighborhood and into the new one.

2. The buyers of this house began chanting, "Let's close quick-ly!" on the day I accepted their offer, and their voices have only gotten louder and more urgent as the days have flown by. Plus now I think I hear drumbeats to accompany them.

So where normally at this time of the summer I'd be returning from a relaxing trip to Missouri or driving down to Laguna to walk on the beach of a morning or sitting in a cool movie theater watching Viggo Mortensen in Captain Fantastic, I'm packing, cleaning, packing, organizing, packing, donating, packing (and occasionally getting a glimpse of one or two of my children and grandchildren).

This week the stress is starting to take its toll. Let me state the obvious here: It's all fun and games being a single, independent woman in good health with no one to answer to except one sweet dog and a couple of cats, but when you're in a race against time to pack up a three-bedroom home (in addition to fulfilling all those other paper-signing and inspection obligations) and it's hot and you're tired (because you're not sleeping well because somewhere in the neighborhood someone is STILL setting off explosives at night), it sucks to be alone. We were meant to have companionship, to have a shoulder to lean on when we're exhausted, to have a partner in our corner who will say, "Come on, we'll get it done. I'll help you."

I'm trying to think of something flippant to follow that with, like, "In lieu of that, I'm eating more ice-cream" or "At least I only have to pack my own dirty laundry," but the truth is, I'm really struggling here. So I decided to write it out. (Yes, I know, these few moments of venting could have been spent packing. But sometimes you have to cut open a vein and let the toxins run out for awhile. So... mission accomplished.)

Addendum: I had just finished writing this and had gone to the kitchen for some more iced tea when the phone rang. My youngest son was calling from Ohio to tell me he'd taken care of some old debts and raised his credit score by 30 points. (Atta boy!) But we also talked at length about my move, and he reminded me that there will be a great deal of peace and enjoyment on the far side of this journey, so "That must help keep you going somewhat, right?" Right, my son. With that in mind, I'm going to go pack a few more boxes.