Turn left at West Virginia

One spring day without any provocation (unless you count my husband asking for the two previous years when “we” were going to finish unpacking and move into our house), I unpacked all our books, and Martha-Stewartized the family room. It looked so good that we decided there was nothing else to do but sell the house. So he took a job in a distant city, and we put the house on the market.

Moving is almost as fun as having your fingernails pulled out while being slowly boiled in oil, so I won’t dwell on the lovely months that followed. A few scenes do stand out, like the time I was in the bathroom indulging in a nasty case of stomach flu when the doorbell rang. I ignored both it and the lockbox on the front door. This marvelous invention allows Realtors to inconspicuously descend at convenient hours like dinner time – “Mmmm! Don’t those fish sticks give this place a homey smell?”

Picture me, weakly worshipping at the porcelain throne, when I heard, “Cathedral ceilings in the living room and you must see the master bath!”

After we had been through some months of this kind of fun, the realtors began to hint that although our house was fabulously desirable to subhuman species such as us (“sellers”), higher lifeforms (“buyers”) could not be expected to set foot in the place unless we made one or two small improvements such as a new roof, new carpeting through the house and getting the windows professionally cleaned.

We didn’t want them to think we were pushovers, so we drew the line a hiring window cleaners. Actually, this was an easy line to draw because it was already inscribed permanently on each window at toddler-hand and dog-nose level.

Moving day finally came – and went – because the movers couldn’t seem to find their driver, who had apparently turned right instead of left a West Virginia. Of course, he had to keep going because, being a man, he knew it was only a small step from stopping to ask directions to becoming sensitive, going to Alan Alda film festivals, and only drinking white wine.

Since we enjoyed moving so much, we rented a house in the new city, which meant we got to do the same thing all over again in a few months. Like buying a car and certain other activities darkly hinted at during seventh-grade recess, buying a house sounds like it should be a lot more fun than one ever has in actual practice. Our realtor must have asked herself why she didn’t opt for an easy job like selling Republicans a tax increase.

But finally, my husband and I found the perfect house. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the same house. His was a contemporary on a lake where he pictured tranquil sunset canoe rides, and I visualized my children’s bodies floating face-down. Mine was a charming Victorian which spoke to me of bygone days but spoke to him of bygone plumbing. Spurred on by the glamour of the phrase, “a roof over our heads,” and a petty unwillingness to give up luxuries like food and shoes, we opted for the antique plumbing.