Full steam ahead.
Yesterday, the phone rang and I saw my real estate agent's name flash up on the screen. "Oh, no."
I'd been dreading her call. It was the day we were supposed to get the results of the appraisal.
A previous offer had fallen through at the appraisal stage. We figured at best we'd have to negotiate for a lower price.
The agent didn't beat around the bush. "We appraised for asking price!" she crowed.
What a relief!
No more negotiating, no more bargaining, we had successfully jumped through all the hoops.
This is happening.
We close on the house on December 8.
Just a quick update as I am yawning from the flurry of activity today. (Read the previous post if you aren't up-to-date on the latest about the sale of our house.)
We had five showings on our house today and received three offers.
Officially, we are now in contract and scheduled to close on December 8, plenty of time to spend Christmas in Florida with my parents and to fly to France in the New Year.
We are moving to France! We really are!
So we have a contract and a backup offer to help things move along.
France will happen after all.
Thanks for all the support and good wishes.
My optimism is on the rise.
A toast to our good luck and to all of my friends online.
Thank you for joining this weekly meme. Grab a copy of the photo above and link back to An Accidental Blog. Share with the rest of us your passion for France. Did you read a good book set in France? See a movie? Take a photo in France? Have an adventure? Eat a fabulous meal or even just a pastry? Or if you're in France now, go ahead and lord it over the rest of us. We can take it.
Was it less than two weeks ago that I joyously made our plane reservations for THE TRIP to France? The trip that would change our lives? The one where we packed all of our belongings in a few bags and moved to start a new life?
I carefully picked out a 4-star hotel in Paris where we would spend a few nights before journeying into the countryside to begin our first housesitting job.
And in the span of a fortnight, those plans have crumbled like so much blue cheese.
Our house fell out of contract on Friday because the buyers could not get their financing.
We urged the real estate agent to get the house back on the market, even though she had told us before that people plan their weekend house viewing on Thursdays. We were a day behind, but we needed to get out there. I had run six miles that morning, reaching my daily step goal by 8 in the morning, but after work, I never sat down. I came home and headed straight into the backyard to pull dying plants from the dirt and to rip the morning glories from the trellis where they had flourished all summer before beginning to wither. I knew how they felt.
I swept walkways and cut back ivy that had grown toward the sidewalk. My steps reached over 30,000 that day as I madly tried to outrace my worries.
Would we be able to move to France? What about our appointment in Chicago to meet with the French consulate? Would Earl have to continue working rather than retire so we could pay our mortgage?
When he came home, we began to talk of a shorter trip to France where Earl would return home after three weeks while I stayed in France to meet our housesitting commitments.
The concerns whirred in my brain as I made a family dinner that night, drowning my sorrows in a few glasses of port and sharing the stories of how we first came to drink "porto" as they call it in France when my friend Delana and her then-boyfriend Patrick recommended it as an aperitif. I loved the sweet tanginess of it.
I don't recommend turning to alcohol to drown sorrows, but felt I had definitely earned it with my 30,000 steps and the view of my France dreams in a downward spiral.
We'd have to cancel Christmas plans in Florida with my parents if Earl didn't retire. He'd need to work the days between Christmas and New Year. How would Earl get to Florida for our flight? Should we change it?
Should we cancel our appointment for a long-stay visa if we weren't going to be able to move?
I ran six miles again the next morning before my final Saturday morning class -- or was it? Would I be teaching in Columbus again in 2018 if we didn't move to France?
When I returned from class, I found Spencer sitting on the couch holding a heating pad to his ear. A sore throat and blossomed into an ear infection.
A notification arrived on my phone. A showing on Sunday at 1 p.m. Ok, 24 hours to get the place shipshape.
Then at 2, another notification - approval requested for a 4:15 showing.
4:15? Two hours away.
Spencer thrashed on the couch, fever making his eyes glaze. "Please tell them I'm sick. Just let me sleep?" he begged.
I pointed out that he needed to do nothing but stumble over to the neighbors where he could continue to lie on the couch -- she's a good neighbor.
Earl and I work feverishly to get the house in showing shape.
A second showing that afternoon, at 4:30, flashed onto our phones. Glad we hadn't turned down the earlier appoint, we hung white towels, shook out a white comforter, straightened fresh flowers, and lit a candle in a freshly carved jack o' lantern on the front porch. With a sprinkle of peppermint and rosemary essential oils on the light bulbs, we abandoned the house and crossed our fingers.
Two more showings loomed on Sunday.
I raced to the garden store and bought some purple and orange pansies. Earl carved two more jack o' lanterns. I mowed the backyard and meticulously staged the house again before we deserted the house for the afternoon.
We visited my brother about an hour and a half away, forgetting about our troubles and hoping for the best. Around 7, we returned home, and just minutes ago got an email with an offer on the house.
So, this is that part of the novel where the heroine sees the sun rising and realizes she can't give up on her dream. That's me tonight, and by tomorrow, I could be in contract again.
Thanks for your well wishes, your good karma, your prayers.
I'm not giving up. Here's the song I've been singing all day:
Thanks for playing along with Dreaming of France. I hope you'll visit each other's blogs and leave comments. Also post your blog info in the Linky below.
Every good novels has twists, turns and setbacks, but this isn't a novel -- it's my life.
Nevertheless, we received a setback on Monday when the realtor called to say the VA appraisal did not reach the purchase price of the house.
We live in a small house in a community that is suddenly the place everyone in Columbus wants to live.
Our small Craftsman-style house as seen on my 50th birthday
It's a pretty amazing place to live, as I've opined before, with restaurants, coffee shops and little boutiques all within walking distance. The school is small with about 1000 students throughout all 12 grades, and it wins awards each year when the state judges the best school districts. We also avoid using buses because everything is within walking distance. And, it feels a bit like a 1950's community, where women feel safe to walk or run alone even when it's dark, and doors are frequently left unlocked as children roam the neighborhoods after school.
The annual bike race and marathon both run through our town.
Our asking price is about $50,000 more than the county auditor's estimate of our house, but the county auditor price usually is less than the appraised value of the house when selling.
The people buying our home are using a VA loan because he is a veteran. VA loans are harder to pass.
What we didn't know is that the couple, moving from Texas to Ohio, plan to put no money down. That means the loan has to be approved for the entire price of the house.
Our real estate agent has until today to convince the appraiser and the bank that it is worth the asking price.
"The buyers still want it," she told me on the phone. "They're willing to rent or do a land contract."
At first, I pondered that idea. They could put $10,000 down and rent for the year. Then if they couldn't follow through we could put the house back on the market. That's before I found out they planned to put no money down on the house.
As a wise man in my house said, "This isn't a Volvo. Why are you expecting to buy with no money down?"
If they don't have the $10,000 to put down on the house, then they wouldn't have $10,000 earnest money to give us.
That's when I decided to push the issue.
I texted the real estate agent and said we'd have the house ready to put back on the market on Thursday, right after the new furnace is installed. (That's another twist for another day).
I told her that if the buyers are in love with the house and want to buy it then they are going to need to come up with some money to bridge between the selling price and the appraised price. If they have other property, they can take out an equity loan on that. Or if they have a 401k, they can borrow money from that.
Unless they step up, we're back on the market, which means, our house might not be sold and Earl might not be able to retire.
We have our plane tickets. We have our room reservations and three housesitting jobs that last through March 15, but I might be traveling alone.
Throw some quick good karma or prayers or whatever you believe in our way.
I do want to live in France, but I don't want to leave my best friend behind to work, and he's definitely ready to live a retired life.
The bedroom is still dark as I open the closet door and slip my feet into my brown Maryjane crocs. I can't see them, and I don't need to see them because they lay where they always are when I put them in my closet.
That's when it hits me. Once we move out of this house, how long will it be until I have a home where my shoes are always in the same place?
Me looking as close to anxious as we have a
picture of while traveling in France.
If we move out at the end of September, we will have three months of patchwork living here in the U.S. before Earl retires. We might stay with friends, or several groups of friends so we don't wear out our welcome. We might share an apartment with Grace and her boyfriend, leaving our things behind in a spare bedroom when we depart for France. We could simply rent AirBnbs for the next three months.
And then, having lived like gypsies in Columbus, we'll be off to France, moving from housesit to housesit, staying with more friends in between or spending nights or weeks at AirBnb properties.
It sounds like a marvelous adventure, and I plan to enjoy it.
But I also need to come to terms with the fact that it might make me anxious, not having a closet door to open, knowing that my brown Maryjane crocs will be there.
P.S. --For those of you worried about my fashion sense in France, I'm not actually planning on taking my crocs with me -- they're just representational of my realization that nothing will have a set place until we put down roots again.
So, we're a week into selling the house, and I realized this morning, as I was standing in the shower, that I needed to soften my face. Relax! I chided myself.
I have to actually focus on it to stop that scrunched up feeling in the middle around my eyes, nose and mouth.
We had to vacate the house at 9 this morning for a showing, and there is another open house this afternoon. We practically can't live in our house.
Tybs has no problem relaxing in our staged house. White pillows, black cat -- perfect
Our real estate agent had talked up the hot market. She said we would probably be in contract before the first open house last Sunday. We aren't; thus, the scrunched up worry face. What's wrong with our house? Is our price too high? Can we pay off all our bills and buy a house in France at a lower price?
All of these questions constantly swirl around my brain, preventing me from enjoying the sun-kissed day and heavenly breeze.
I had a brief run Saturday morning before I had to teach, and I know that I need more of that - running time.
Meanwhile, Earl and I carried our laptops to Panera this morning and settled in for breakfast and some screen time.
We had talked about driving to my brother's house about 90 minutes away and staying through the open house. I know I would have enjoyed seeing him and my sister-in-law, but the thought of driving back home in the evening, more exhausted than ever, made us cancel that plan.
In addition to the carefully staged setting at home, we have some more turmoil coming our way. Tucker is moving out of his apartment to a new one, but he has to have his things out on Monday and can't move in until Tuesday. He's going to use our garage as the receptacle overnight for all of his belongings. He may or may not sleep at our house that one night of homelessness.
But Spencer, who has been living with Tucker for the past month, will be moving back home. I'm sure it's not what he wants, but until he has a steady job and a bit of money saved up, he'll have a place to sleep and plenty of food. I urged him to take his time and find a job he likes rather than jumping from sales job to sales job that he doesn't like.
He's delivering food for Panera where he will get immediate tips for his everyday needs while he continues to look for a job with a good salary and benefits.
Grace continues her job search. She's receiving unemployment, so she can take her time, as well.
It seems like we have very few stable supports in our family right now.
Yesterday while I was teaching, Tucker texted to ask where everyone was. He had dropped by the house to do laundry. Then when Earl got home after the morning showing, he said Spencer had shown up. I ordered pizza and picked it up on the way home, along with texting Grace that she should come over for pizza. She wanted to do laundry too.
Me taking a selfie with the pizzas, reminding the kids I was alone and hungry.
When I got home, everyone but Earl had left. I texted the kids and soon they each pulled up and joined me on the patio for pizza and a rare family lunch as the breeze ruffled the umbrella over the table and the cats rubbed against the chair legs, not wanting pizza, but just some attention.
And for a moment, I looked up and remembered how lucky I am.
It's a little pale, but we did see a rainbow last week, which surely is a sign.
Guys, I'm writing to you all today like a diary, a chance to pour out my fears.
My eyes popped open suddenly last night, boring into the darkness. But the darkness was broken by flashes of lightning and a loud boom that could have been thunder or the tree at the corner that fell during the night.
My mind didn't care which. It began racing.
What was I doing?
Was the house really going on the market in a week? Were we going to leave behind the house we bought 10 years ago, where the children attended school, where Earl and I walked to dance class, where I trudged most days to the coffee shop with my computer bag slung over my arm so that I could tap out books that inevitably focused on my longing for France?
But while I was longing for France, did I forget to find the joy of everyday life in my little burg?
If we sell our house here, the number one school district in central Ohio, we will never be able to afford a house here again. We hope to sell the house for an amount we couldn't afford now.
I spent some time today trying to figure out how we could keep the house even if Earl retires, and we might be able to, but we would sacrifice that other thing we've been wanting to do -- moving to France, traveling, exploring, having adventures.
We could stay here, and I could add an extra job to the two teaching jobs I already have. I could convince Grace and Jack to move into the refinished basement where they would only need to share the kitchen upstairs.
But that would mean giving up our dream.
Earl would be free to write and travel and explore, but not with me because I would be working more hours.
Perhaps if we had a place to move to then it wouldn't be so scary. We've sold houses before, but we always knew where we were moving afterwards, had a warm home waiting for us, but not this time.
Our plan is to stay in Ohio until December when Earl will retire, yet we have no place to move too if the house does sell. Apparently, homes are selling within hours of going on the market. That would still give us a month or so to find some place to live for the remaining three months, but the pressure has begun to build.
And then when we go to France, we don't have a house purchased. We thought we'd rent for a few months in different places to figure out where we want to live, but our we endangering our security, our future, by not owning property?
If I share my doubts with Earl, rather than the two of us talking it out, he's quick to come down on a black or white side. "Forget it, we won't go," or, "don't be ridiculous, of course, we're going" when I just need to bounce ideas around.
And when he tells people we are moving to France, he still says that it is my dream. I thought it was our dream now, but if it's only me then should we be going?
On top of all the tumultuous thoughts, I fell this morning on the last step of our concrete porch, landing on my left knee and my telephone. The screen cracked on my phone. The bone under my knee, that one that kind of sticks out, is really sticking out now and has turned purple. It swelled up like a bump on someone's head.
That just gives me an excuse to sit in a recliner and give all the confusing thoughts in my head a chance to run amok.
Do I take the plunge, take a chance, selling the house and travel around France and other European destinations? Or should we play it safe and find a way to hold onto our little, but expensive, house?
Some of you may have noticed that my blog posts have been a bit sparse recently.
That's because I have been working like a dog, actually, not like a dog, because frankly most dogs just lie around panting all day. I have been working like a short-order cook in a busy restaurant, trying to get our house ready to sell. Why? So we can move to France next year.
I have not been in this alone; my husband is also working hard, and he has a number of jobs to do that I cannot, which leaves me to tackle things that are within my ability.
My biggest job has been painting every room in the house.
For weeks now I've been telling my friends that I'm busy painting the rooms in our house. I'm sure they are thinking, how long can that take? It's a small house.
Just let me say that it's a much more complicated process when preparing to move.
Last week, I finished our bedroom and the hallway, which completes every room.
Painting each room required multiple steps. For example, in our bedroom, the first step was winnowing belongings and packing up others. Since we moved here, I've had a lingerie chest in the corner of the room. And it held my lingerie along with running clothes and socks.
I had to get rid of some clothes in my main chest of drawers so that I could combine the belongings from the lingerie chest. I also stored winter clothes and donated a bunch of things that I don't wear regularly.
A nearby neighbor took the lingerie chest off my hands -- she paints furniture -- and I moved my chest of drawers into the other upstairs bedroom where we are shifting for the sale of the house.
The next day, I moved our bed into the new room. I did need help from my son and my husband at different points to get the bed put back together. Then, of course, I had to wash the sheets, make the bed.
But the real work came in the old room as I sorted through the boxes and storage bins that had hidden under the bed. Come on, I'm not the only one who just runs a dust mop or vacuum under the bed occasionally and then is shocked at the amount of dust under there.
Once I'd figured out where all of that stuff needed to go, then I had to clean. Sweeping with the broom first and then mopping.
The only item remaining in the bedroom was my husband's chest of drawers. I moved that into the middle of the room and figured I'd cover it while I painted. I can't move it into the other bedroom yet because there's a desk that needs to be moved out and into this room.
Exhausted, I shut the door on another day of not painting.
Each room has been equally intense, as I put away items we plan to keep and make runs to Goodwill with the things we are giving away. Even giving things to Goodwill isn't as simple as it should be because I have to make a list of everything so that we can take it off our taxes.
In addition, I've been teaching two classes and starting next week I'll have three classes.
Spencer, who is living at home since college graduation while he saves up a nest egg, asked last week if I was not going to go to the grocery store again until we moved.
We have all the basics, I explained. Milk, eggs, bread. "What do you want that we don't have?" I asked.
"Cream horns," he said.
You know those quasi pastries that look like a long shell filled with cream. And it's not even good cream. Since I've come home from France, spoiled by those delicious coffee eclairs, nothing else is tempting.
A couple who used to live in the neighborhood reached out to us. They want to move back. Would we show them our house even though it wasn't ready to go on the market?
That took two full days of cleaning the main rooms so we could walk them through it. My husband and children did not appreciate my suggestions that they eat outside, but I threatened them if they took any food out of the kitchen or even thought about cooking.
The couple ended up not taking our house, but I thought I'd show you the fruits of my labors.
Some glares from the lights and windows, but you can see our Shaker-style cabinets, black granite counters and porcelain tile floors.
Here's a view of the other side of the kitchen.
Here's a shot of the dining room and living room. The walls have been removed between each room.
And here's a shot straight into the light of the living room.
We fell in love with this house because of its openness and the windows. It's a Craftsman-style house built in 1924. The floors squeak and tilt a bit in the corners, but the thick trim around the windows and the moldings along the ceilings are not something we would sacrifice.
Here's our former bedroom, now turned into an office. I opened the shutters and I'm looking into the treetops as I write this post.
You might be imagining that we are finished, but I have to admit that the laundry room, the basement storage room and the garage have yet to be tackled. Of course, they are the worst.
I had hoped to have the house on the market next weekend. The painter is coming to finish the trim outside.
The bathroom guy is coming to regrout our white subway tiles. Then more bathtub guys arrive on Thursday to reglaze the white cast-iron tub. Everything should be ready by next Saturday, if I just buckle down and clean some more.
Wish me luck.
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