Monday, February 18, 2013

Moving Makes Me Mean(er)

The day after Christmas, I stood in my living room surrounded by piles of luggage, opened presents as far as the eye could see, a dying Christmas tree and all it's yuletide lameness, and the leftover remnants of a present wrapping station, and I lost it.

We were at capacity. There was not one more thing this house could hold, and my impulsivity and I did the most logical thing: logging on to the local real estate brokerage's web page.

Disgruntled Husband and I have always kept an eye on the market around here. He does it because he does a lot of real estate transactions; I do it because I'm a nosy SOB. So in bed that night, I scrolled through the local market. And then I saw it: a house I was familiar with at a price I was stunned to see. The next day, I told DH about what I'd found, not even thinking it would ever be a possibility. He called the realtor and scheduled a showing for us. Before we knew it, we had an accepted offer on the place (which, we said in glee, we could fit our entire house in this new house's basement.) Which then left us with the small task of selling our current house.

You know, the easy stuff.

I had lived through the process as a kid and knew it wasn't pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. DH lived in the same house since he was brought home from the hospital, until I plucked him out of Iowa. Sufficed to say, he was a little less-familiar with the process.

It took us a month to just get the house ready to be on the market. That's a month of cleaning, deep cleaning, super deep cleaning, and extra-strength uber super deep cleaning. We rented a dumpster. We hired a contractor to finish some projects that were unfinished. We hired a painter (because, really, you don't want me painting). We re-arranged and purged and boxed up non-essentials to be stored in the garage. To say that I've been a little less-than-pleasant about this process is like saying I was only mildly annoying as a child.

I told DH at the beginning of this process that it wasn't going to be fun. It was going to be awful, and could very well end us. He smirked; I was being serious. He may have gotten the point one night when I stormed out of the house and didn't return until 2:30 a.m., because he had not only forgotten to pick up, he made the mess worse. I came back and told him I didn't have the energy any more to go through with the move.

All of this can be yours!* (*Toddler, cat, and nervous breakdown not included.)
And yet, somehow we've made it to this point. I'm not sure how. I blocked out a lot of it, with only my receipts to show me what happened. (That's another story all together. We figured at most, we'd spend about $200 getting this place together. Add a 2 in front of that number.)

The cleaning lady (first of my adult life) was here Thursday. Friday, we had the pictures and paperwork finished. It was listed by Saturday morning. I suppose time will tell what happens next.

Here's the weird thing. I feel like I've stumbled into this whole thing. Yes, we need space. Yes, we are on top of each other. But I love my house. I freaking love it. If I could wave my magic wand and get another bedroom and bathroom, this post wouldn't even exist. We moved in when I was pregnant with Hoover. I brought home two babies to this house. I can point to every home improvement project we did; I can show you were Hoover did such things as pour the milk over his newborn sister's head or get stuck in the kitchen stool, almost requiring the assistance of the local fire department. We have plants outside that were given to us by DH's folks, one of which was a present when Mini Me was born. This house is us, it's who we are, and it's kinda sad to see that chapter of our lives come to an end.

But the morning fights over our one upstairs bathroom trumps all of that. Memories be damned! We all want to groom in peace!

I hope each one of you says a prayer/crosses fingers/lets a dove go in our name that our house sells quickly. I just don't know if we can keep it this clean for more than a week. It may very well become Survivor: Mean Jessica's House. If this drags on like I hear it should, I may be forced to vote people out of the house.

It's so cute that they think I'm kidding.


  1. Love you! You can do it!
    Beans, who has moved many times, but has never had to sell the place she left.

  2. You can do it. You may get more votes than me in the meanest mommy race, but hey, who's counting anyway?

  3. Love you! You can do it!. thanks for sharing.