The Unknown

Next weekend, I’m trotting up to Missouri, ostensibly to visit my parents, but also to look at houses to buy. Step 1 of my Big Plan: Find a House.

But first, there have to be houses to buy. Do you know how hard it is to buy an affordable house in this market? Do you know how hard it is to do when you live 500 miles away?

Guys, it’s hard, but that’s nothing compared to my worry about selling my place.

I’m looking anxiously around my house, seeing every flaw. My trees, victims of last winter’s #icemaggedon, look like hell. My garage is full of stuff that I have no idea why I’ve kept or how I’ve accumulated; how do I clean that out? I’m intimidated every time I walk into it. I have my bookcase that Wayne and I built – do I leave it, or take it with me? If not, what do I do with the hundred or so books ladening its shelves? Do I have to clean my carpets? Will they like my remodeled bathroom? Will prospective buyers hold my laminate kitchen counters against me (I had plans to replace them with granite next year)? The “nutmeg” painted dining room? The red guest bathroom (don’t judge; it’s actually very pretty)?

How can I just up and leave the house with an hour’s notice WHEN I WORK FROM HOME AND HAVE DOGS?

How is this all going to work? HOW IS ALL THIS GOING TO WORK?

Choices.

My sister tells me to just take one thing at a time, but I am tweaking – majorly tweaking.

Every morning I wake up thinking, “You only have so many more days in this house. Make the most of it.”

2005. I was driving home for the first time. In my hot little hand, I had the keys to my new house, and I was heading home for the first time. Daisy was the passenger seat, riding – literally – bitch as always. And the song from Rascal Flatts came on, “God Bless the Broken Road”, and every time I hear that song, I remember the excitement and anticipation of walking into my brand new-smelling, perfectly-pristine home, the one where I’d make all kinds of memories and MY DREAMS WOULD COME TRUE.

Some of them have. Some of them have not.

Daisy and Alfie died, when they were supposed to live forever.

I still do not have granite countertops, to my chagrin.

My flower beds look like hell. I tried to do something about that the other day, and got pwned by age. Why I thought I could do NOTHING for a year, then stride out and handle spent blooms and bushy bushes like a teenager, I do not know.

I still have not replaced the 16-year-old picket fence put in by the builders, and if you know builders, this was the cheapest fence ever. It looks like an old tobacco-chewer’s teeth.

My guest bedroom looks like a hospital room. I feel bad for anyone who stays there. There are no fresh flowers on the dresser, and if you get clean sheets, count yourself fortunate.

I’ve replaced the innards of my two toilets more times that I can count. “You have more issues with toilets than anybody I know,” my sister tells me.

What if nobody wants to buy my house? What if I can’t find a house to buy?

So I am anxious. So much unknown. My thoughts are all over the place, much like this post. So much up in the air.