Here We Go Again

I bought my first home nearly 18 years ago when I was 23 years old and a newly-wed. I was so proud of the modest 2 story, 2 bedroom, 2 ½ bath Townhouse in Delray Beach, which boasted 1,288 square feet of living space. It had a large fenced in patio, no lawn to speak of and is identical to many quad-type residences with the wood shake shingle slanted roof that are ubiquitous here in South Florida.

This is where I still live today.

I have lived at this address now longer than anywhere else in my life. In these walls I spent the all days of my first marriage; experienced my one and only pregnancy (the actual conception was off premises – but that is another blog post). Later, I became a divorcee and single Mother, student, then career woman. I met my wonderful 2nd husband, Donnie, on this patio 12 years ago. He and I cohabitated here and it is where we have spent the first three years of our married life. My daughter, now 14, was raised here. Her home address has not changed since birth.

The Townhouse has been my calm in the not-so-proverbial storm. I have protected it as best as I could, as it has protected me, from the numerous hurricanes that have plagued this area. I have nailed up plywood over the windows and once to the patio gate in an irrational fear of looters. After Hurricane Wilma did the worst damage, tearing the wooden fence out of the ground and ripping out the South side of the mansards, I managed to get myself voted onto the HOA Board of Directors. This was so that I could ensure the passing of a document change that would put the responsibility of the mansards into the hands of the Association and then helped manage the project to get all of wood mansards in the Community changed to a uniform stone-coated steel. (To the winds of our next hurricane, as long as they don’t exceed 150 miles an hour, I say: Bring. It. On.)

Despite the Townhome’s smallish size, it has been large enough that I have been able to host family and friends for sleepovers and provided longer-term shelter for friends in transition. I have thrown everything from a small informal dinner party for 4 in the dining room to a more lavish catered Champagne brunch for 25 al fresco on the patio. I have had Happy Hours, play-dates, surprise birthday parties, movie discussions, SATC Cosmo nights, Trivia and Scrabble competitions and many, many just me and Tay “ST”s (which means ‘special time.’) here.

I have lived a life here.

However, even before Donnie moved in with Taylor and I in Fall of 2004, I had been experiencing a feeling that perhaps I…or we, had outgrown our little home. Once he moved in, the walls were definitely bursting at the seams.

In August of 2008, right towards the end of the housing boom, we put the place up for sale. Unfortunately, our timing also coincided with the recession and the dearth of the housing market. During the ensuing 12 months, we had quite a few showings. We’d get a phone call from an agent and one of us would have to rush home in the middle of the work day to do a last minute spiff-up and take the dogs out of the house for an hour time frame. This made for an uncomfortable, tenuous and stressful existence. After a year of doing this, our listing expired without us ever receiving an offer. Donnie and I opted to let it remain off the market. I stopped dreaming and bookmarking pages on realestate.com and chose instead to sit back, take a breather and to lick my Real Estate wounds rather than jump right back in to the craziness again.

Last month, I had finally saved enough money to put a down payment on a new car. I have lusted after the Toyota Prius ever since I drove one as a rental several years ago. My sister works for Toyota, so between the Family and Friends dealer pricing and the financial incentives that Toyota has been tossing out like beads on Mardi Gras since their recent recall troubles, the timing seemed right.

My family (consisting of Donnie and Taylor) did a quick about-face at the news of my car-buying intentions. They both knew that given lenders’ skittishness in today’s economic climate that me buying a car would mean the end of any hope of moving for at least the next several years. I was vetoed. In my own family.

Thus, this morning, I signed another contract with our Realtor. (Who has had my implicit trust and my back since High School and who’s acronym is the trendy BFF.)

Once again, we are off to the Real Estate rat race. Endless days of keeping our home “show-ready” and allowing strangers to tramp and poke through it and pass judgment. Nights of hoping all will work out, searching online Real Estate sites for a potential new home and number crunching on the waiting spreadsheets as to how much we will make if the house sells for X dollars and what our future mortgage payments may look like.

I am melancholy and conflicted about the whole exercise. Naturally, I am excited about the prospect of moving and making a new house into a home for our family. But, I feel that just recently I was finally at a place of acceptance that this little Townhome would be our permanent residence – sometimes you have to readjust your dreams to welcome new ones, right? As mentioned, this place has not been so bad, and has housed many, many memories that make it a home. Additionally, I am still experiencing the sting of not even getting one stinking, even lousy offer during the year that the house was for sale previously. (Not unlike the feeling of being picked last for kickball when I was in grade school.)

In the end, I am afraid I may have jinxed myself. I am remembering the words that I uttered as a proclamation when moving in here, oh-so-many-years-ago, with my first husband, after a very prolonged mortgage approval process and the back-breaking work of unloading a U-haul with all of our meager belongings (we couldn’t afford movers.) Sweeping my arm towards the towards the cubby closet under the stairs, I said, “You’ll have to bury me under those stairs, because I am never moving again!”

Here’s hoping those were not “famous last words.”