She’s Leaving Home After Living Alone For So Many Years

Wingman was a partner in an up-and-coming Dotcom company which was eventually bought out by a much larger Dotcom company. The owner got cash for his shares of stock while all the limited partners got was their stock transferred to the new company. When the owner bought a big, beautiful  home, Wingman wanted a bigger home too. We argued about selling our little ranch-after all, in just a couple of years, the boys would be starting college (think tuition) and moving on. And where would we get the money for that bigger mortgage? Wingman rationed that once he could sell his stock, we'd be fine. Very reluctantly, I agreed to buy the home I live in now.

One week before we closed, Wingman lost his job.

A month later, a tree in the front yard keeled over, hit the house and broke the front door.

Two months later, the Dotcom bubble burst, and the stock we owned wasn't worth the paper it was printed on.

Boy, did I hate that house then.

I have a rubber spatula in my kitchen that has “Desserts is Stressed Spelled Backwards” on it. And just like what happened back then and again in the Sandy period, stress is really starting to get to me. So much so that from gritting my teeth, I chipped a tooth. Not great, since my dental insurance expired the last day of January. The day my old job ended.

But it wasn’t because I lost my job. In fact, I was only out of work for a month before finding a position working for a builder only seven minutes from home. No nights, no weekends, every major holiday off. I wanted it so badly that I did something I’ve never done before: I baked a basket of cookies (in shapes of houses and the first letter of the company name), included a letter as to why they should hire me, and brought it to the owner. My friends scoffed at the idea, but since the glowing recommendations of former bosses and colleagues didn’t get me anywhere, nor my resume-heavy with management skills, I did that crazy something. And it was that basket of cookies that got me in the door. My timing was a perfect match for the company’s sweet tooth.

No, I’m certain that I chipped the tooth from what I’ve been thinking about every day since Wingman died: this house is too big and has to go. And every decision associated with putting it on the market has caused me stress. The idea of rejection, even if it’s this stupid house and not me personally, is killing me. What won’t potential buyers like when they come to see it?  Will they find fault with my color choices? Will they see a closet full of shoes and ask why I didn't update the bathrooms instead?

I’ve cleaned, painted, polished purged and prepped. Armed with only a rusty (thanks Sandy) hammer, some screwdrivers and my own ingenuity I've made my own minor repairs. When I screwed those up, I hired the experts. But it stinks to know that even after finding someone who wants this family-friendly house the way it is now, with its fenced-in yard, only a block from a park with a community pool club, tennis courts, baseball and soccer fields and a boat ramp, some home inspector will come in and proceed to find it's hidden faults. I’m not sure if I can survive that scrutiny.

And when I list and then WHEN the house sells, there's the stress of finding a place to go. It's MY decision alone for the first time in my life, so there's no time for the "paralysis of analysis" or even just sweating the small stuff. This is a sizzling hot market for home sellers with more buyers than inventory right now.  So far, by the time I see what I like, it's sold before I can get off my butt to go look at it.

And when I do find that next home just for me, those sellers better be worried.  Because I'm going to judge them on how much space there is in their closets for my shoes before I buy anything.