The decision has been made. The sign is in the front yard. Our house if up for sale. After much consideration, and spending a few glorious winters in Scottsdale, Arizona, we have decided to move. It’s not a decision we take lightly. I’ve lived in Michigan my whole life and the farthest I’ve ever moved away from where I grew up is about 20 miles. Tim, on the other hand, has moved a lot in his life and has now been in Michigan for over thirty years. Since he moved here to be with me, I know these have been the best thirty years of his life. At least that’s what I keep telling him. He has yet to respond in the affirmative.

Of course, I’m excited about moving. I’m also terrified at the same time. Changes in my life have never come easily. When I was 22 I moved into to my own apartment. Every night after work I went back to my dad’s house and begged him to let me move back home. He told me that since I moved out when he was on vacation, and I took most of his furniture and kitchenware, my apartment should feel like home. He, on the other hand, was sitting in a lawn chair, using a plastic fork to eat a piece of cake. Years later, I realized moving was still an anxiety ridden experience. 

Before we moved into our current house, we put an offer in on another house about a mile away. I got so upset at the thought of moving that I had to call my friend, Lisa, over to the house we were considering to calm me down. Lisa just told me to breathe and that the decision wasn’t final and to please move over if I was going to throw up. 

I’ve come a long way from throwing up while looking at prospective houses. Hopefully, this move will be easier on me (and Lisa). For one thing, we are already established in Scottsdale with a condo, good friends, and a love for the hot desert climate. The only thing I’m really having a difficult time with is this whole business of showing the house. Fortunately for us, our real estate agent, Linda, also happens to be one of our very good friends and she is patiently walking us through the process.

The first thing I noticed about listing the house is that all of the wording has changed. Before listing the house, Linda came over for a walk-through. We had to look at the house, not as owners, but as prospective buyers. “Do you think we need to paint the master bedroom?” I asked Linda. “You can’t call it a master bedroom. It’s now either an Owner’s Suite or Primary Bedroom.” she replied. Apparently, the word master has now become politically incorrect and must be scrapped from all real estate material. I should probably refrain from referring to the garage as slave quarters. And that’s not all. Forget Jack and Jill bathrooms. Since Jack and Jill refer to only two sexes, this means there isn’t a place for the non-binary to pee. When writing down information for our listing, I made the mistake of writing that our home is just a “short walk” to town. I was then informed that people in wheelchairs could possibly find this offensive. So, I scratched that out and angrily wrote that our house is an “easy roll” into town. I didn’t want to bring up the fact that our primary suite has a walk-in closet. 

Besides trying to finagle my way past the politically correct verbiage, I also had to get the house ready for showings. Before the listing went public, Linda brought in a team of agents from her office to see the house and make sure it was “staged” properly. Staging a house means making it appear inviting, uncluttered, and immaculate. When we sold our last house, my idea of staging was just making sure my dirty undies weren’t piled up on the bedroom floor. If they were, I just kicked them into the walk-in closet in the master bedroom. Those days are gone. Tim and I were not home when the agents had their walk-through. We were actually across the street, hiding in our neighbor’s living room and peeking through the blinds. When the agents finally left and we went back home, we found that most of our living room furniture was gone and what was left was rearranged to look like a hotel lobby.

“Where’s our stuff?” I asked Linda. “We all decided that the living room needed a cleaner look. It shouldn’t look like people actually live here,” she said. I then asked her where my framed photos were. “We tucked the family photos away in drawers. Prospective buyers want to picture themselves in your home, and not the people actually living there. And can you please remove the names of the cats from the pet door downstairs? Some people have cat allergies and this might deter them.” 

After that agent showing, we felt that we had all of the information we needed for a successful house sale. That weekend we prepared for our first open house. We cleared everything off of the kitchen counters and island so it looked like no one had ever prepared a meal in there. I scrubbed the bathrooms and showers and told Tim if he needed to shower to please go across the street to the neighbors. Linda suggested removing at least 50% of our clothing from the closet. I just laughed at that. Every sofa cushion was fluffed. TV screens were polished. My office desk was cleared of everything except a computer monitor and a pencil. My bookshelves were nearly emptied. The autographed photo from Judge Judy came down off the wall. My framed and autographed Alice Cooper album was turned upside down. My Dexter action figure (complete in kill room clothing) was peeking out from behind a tasteful copy of Great Expectations. As for the cat’s names above the pet door, since both of our cats are sadly gone, I just put up a post-it note that said “Cats are Dead.” Now, let’s get ready to rumble!

While the open house was going on, Tim and I were, once again, across the street hunkered down in a dog bed under our neighbor’s living room window. This was the perfect spot for peeking through the blinds. We saw people come and go and judged everyone by what type of car they drove and how they were dressed. No one that day appeared worthy of our home. “They’re driving a Hyundai,” Tim said. “I don’t want that parked in my garage.” “I don’t care about the car,” I replied. “I refuse to sell my home to a woman who wears leggings and no underwear. I hope she doesn’t sit on any of our furniture!” 

Speaking of spying on people, one hidden gem that we have in our home is a Nest camera. We don’t watch it while people are touring the house. We save it so we can rerun it later with a bowl of popcorn and a glass of wine. My agent told us that it’s not a good idea to eavesdrop on people because we might not like what we hear. She was right. We listened to people make comments like “This wall needs to go.” “I don’t like their furniture.” “The bedrooms are small.” “I’m concerned about people who have Dexter action figures.” “I would like the paint colors to be a) grey, b) grey and white, c) white and grey, d) white with a touch of gray and e) grey with a touch of white.” I found myself drinking more and more wine and occasionally flipping off the Nest screen. While Tim wasn’t as loud and animated as I was, I could still hear him mutter, “Get the fuck out of my house.” 

It’s been over a month now and the house is still available. At the suggestion of some of my friends, I buried a St. Joseph statue in the front yard. According to the directions I had to bury him upside down and facing the street. I did this at night so my neighbors wouldn’t call 911 and have the police do a wellness check on Tim. So far Joseph has proven to be a slacker. I’m giving him another week before I resort to voodoo and magic.

We’ve even lost our enthusiasm for making the house presentable at all times. The cushions aren’t fluffed. The toilet seat may or may not be up. Judge Judy and Alice Cooper are once again front and center in my office. We don’t even spy from across the street anymore. In fact, we don’t even leave the house. If prospective buyers can’t get past the visual of me sitting on the sofa playing WORDLE, then they don’t deserve our home. 

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