Dream Home?

So, last month I was selling an extra gas stove from the competed cabana remodel.  I got several emails from eager stove-buyers whom I replied back with times they could come visit... but no one followed-up and no one showed up.  (uuugh! what's with these poeple?!?)  Then I realized that my email account I use for craigslist and other junkmail type of things was not sending any emails from my phone. (weird because it would still download new emails...) but whatever.  I was determined to get RID of the extra stove in the way.  Upon my email-revelation, I sat down at a computer, logged in and randomly choose a recent inquiry email and replied (this time, actually SENDING the response)

The fellow sent his phone number fairly quickly and I called him up.  He seemed confused and not sure of the size stove he needed - which made me uneasy so I was about to hang up thinking it was a scam.  Just then, he told me it was actually for his son and he was helping him out and expalined why he was confused...

So later than day he and is 38-year-old son show up and they were both friendly and such but quickly realized it was the wrong size stove.  The son gave his dad a 'thanks a lot' kind of glance and they started apologizing and heading towards the door.  Right before stepping out of the cabana, the dad said, "well... you're not interested in buying a house on your street, are you?" This time the glance from the son was even less friendly than the first time.

CUT TO: a week prior
Mr. Price, shorty and I were on a walk and as we passed this sweet little house with a front porch swing and green shutters I interrupted conversation to say, "If THAT house ever went on the market, I'd sell ours in a heartbeat!"

Right.

CUT BACK TO: cabana and son giving dad "shut the #@!&-up" look
Me: um, which house?
Guy: oh, it's the white house...
Me: (interrupting) ...with Green shutters?
Guy: Yes!
Son: (eye brows lifting and head tilting back)
Me: Where is Sudie? (*Sudie is the sweet old lady who has lived there and always loves seeing Shorty and even Madeleine, back in the day)
Guy: She's doing fine, but the family decided it was time for her to move into Westminster.
Me: Hmm.  When is it going on the market?
Guy: oh, the family is still cleaning it up a bit.  want to go have a look?

Here's where it gets REALLY crazy -- besides for the fact that the listing agent for the house I had only 6 days prior proclaimed I'd "move in a heartbeat" for is standing in my cabana telling me about his pocket listing.  We go take a look and... it is the EXACT same floor plan that our house was when we bought it... except for (1)front porch swing (2)no pool! and (3) long driveway in which a small blonde person I know could ride a bike and make sidewalk chalk drawings.  AND I could redo all the renovations we did on this house but.. with a whole new set of mistakes because I would do it differently!!

So it began: getting the house ready to sell. cleaned out closets, had a handy man come fix a few things we'd been meaning to have done, had a garage sale, organized and cleaned up... and Green Shutters went under contract.

(this is the sound of my heart breaking)

But here we are.  We've come this far.  I've been mentally moving out of my house for several weeks now.  And if not now, when?  So here we are.  Sign in the yard as of yesterday.  Over a dozen agents came through this morning and 3 showings this afternoon.  The good news: we don't have to go anywhere/sell/ move.  The house looks great and this forced us to finally do a bunch of the things we've been meaning to do for a while. But if it happens to sell quickly... well, here's to the next adventure(!) and who knows where will be home!  Maybe we'll even break-rank with the fam and move to (gasp!) ...Tarrytown.  All of 0.5 mile away.  Or maybe the contract on Green Shutters will fall through and the thing that set all of this in motion will come to fruition.  Who knows.  But for now, there is a sign in my yard and it is a bit surreal


Some of my favorite parts:

Outside

Cabana

 Master bath

Kitchen