Here We Go Again

I guess we're just gluttons for punishment.  Or maybe my sheer, unbridled jealously of Peenee and his real-estate adventures and Jon and his coming change of residence finally got of hand...

Whatever the reason, it looks like we may be moving.

Oy.

We've been thinking about it for a few weeks, as our one-year anniversary in our not-uncharming but ungenerously proportioned rental flat approaches.  Two weeks ago, I dropped into a couple of open houses in the area in which we're interested.   There was a possibility or two.  We thought about things, the Mister and I.

Suddenly, we found ourselves - almost without realizing how - we ended up pre-qualified for a mortgage, and attached to a relentlessly cheery and almost parodically English-rose real-estate lady, Prudence.

And we looked.  And looked.  We saw one or two unspeakably awful places (how about a one-hundred percent mirrored kitchen?  Does that sound both fun and practical?  Next to that, the 2.5 matching totally mirrored bathrooms hardly made us bat an eye) and a couple of it-wouldn't-kill-us places.  And then over this past weekend, we saw a really rather comfortable kind of place.  Not perfect - no gas stove, for example, a sad thing for a cook like Mr. Muscato - but with a vast fitted closet in one bedroom and two, count 'em, two linen cupboards.  A lovely balcony, running the whole length of the flat the way balconies do in nice apartments in Cairo.  A breakfast room.  A healthy and prosperous condo association.  Even that most prized of HGTV-treasures, new granite countertops paired with a cheery tile backsplash.

So we said yes.  And the bank said yes.  And this evening, tentatively, the sellers said yes.  Now, if all goes well - and there's many a slip, God knows - and people like the inspector say yes, it may all move forward.

Of course, it won't be nearly as traumatic to move just a few miles as it was last year at this time to haul our lives 7,000 miles from the Sandlands to Our Nation's Capital, but I fully expect it will have its moments.

And if not, there will be terriers to worry about, so we won't be bored.  You, well that's another story, but I'll beg your indulgence for yet another round of moving horror stories.

Did I mention the breakfast room?

Oh, God - I just read the copy on this ad.  Unsettling and guilt-inducing.  The '50s were good at that kind of thing.