Our house wasn’t for sale, or even for rent. At least not that I knew of. So the only way I can explain how it is I’m writing this column while sitting in the cab of a 26-foot moving van is simply this: Fate always gets her way.
It all started last October, though I didn’t know it then. The company my husband worked for closed his division, and he started looking for a new job. Meanwhile, I’d been hankering to ramp up my career. After 15 years of working from home to raise kids, writing newspaper articles in between loads of laundry, carpool and grocery runs, I was ready. My kids are baked. One is going off to college; the other will have her driver’s license soon.
I kept this in the back of my mind.
Occasionally, I’d scan job boards for openings for a slightly neurotic home design hobbyist and freelance journalist. That was depressing. But this was clear: For a decent job, I would have to get out of Dodge, or in this case Denver.
But how? I was housebound. It would be stupid to sell our house in this market even if we could.
I kept this in the back of my mind.
Although we could comfortably survive while Dan scouted out a new job, I looked at our burn rate, how much it cost us to run a big house, both in terms of dollars and missed opportunities. Every thought began with “If we didn’t have this house” and ended with “we could get jobs anywhere,” “we could downsize,” “we could save more for retirement.” We could. We could. We could.
Yet the thought of moving paralyzed me like a concrete body cast.
I kept this in the back of my mind.
Then one day last fall — JUST OUT OF CURIOSITY — I asked a real estate agent who specialized in rentals how renting worked. Who paid the gardener? How did commissions get handled? What could we get for our place?
She told me that the rental market for higher-end properties was hotter than a pizza oven. Homeowners from Palm Springs to Poughkeepsie want to move for better jobs, but can’t sell or won’t. So they rent out the house they own, then rent another nice house to live in.
“Interesting,” I said, “but we’re not ready to do anything now.”
I kept this in the back of my mind.
Then last January, after the bacchanalia of the holidays, I called a health-editor friend with the Tribune Co., which I’ve been freelancing for since 1995.
“Let me know if you hear of any jobs, would you?”
“Good journalism jobs are so very, very few,” she said, then asked: “Would you move?”
A nanosecond passed. “Yes.”
“I might have something.”
Because Dan gives business seminars, his only criterion for where we live is that he be near an airport. He had two job offers that would give him that kind of flexibility.
Three weeks later, I was sitting in the offices of the Orlando Sentinel, going through a day of interviews. The newspaper wants a senior health reporter to cover what is to be a formidable medical city, a $7 billion health- care complex that will create 30,000 jobs.
I kept this in the back of my mind.
That same day (here’s the fate part), the real estate agent I’d talked to five months earlier called Dan. She’d been showing a couple from Dallas rental houses. They didn’t like any houses they’d seen.
“I know you’re not listed,” the Realtor said to Dan, “but I was wondering if I could just show them?”
In a what-have-we-got-to-lose moment, he said, “Why not?”
Meanwhile, back in Orlando, I called home to share news of my interview. “The people are nice; the beat is interesting, and (here’s where you come in) they’ll let me keep my column.”
Then Dan spoke these immortal words: “I know you very well. If you don’t do this, you will live with regret. By the way, some people looked at our house today.”
By the time I flew home, the couple had submitted an offer for a two-year lease, and a request to buy most of our furniture. (This is the downside of having a knack for decorating. Someone may buy the rug right out from under your feet!)
And that is how, at this minute, your faithful correspondent is writing her column from the cab of a 26-foot moving truck, like a venturesome snail, my house on my back. And it wasn’t for sale, or even for rent. Keep that in the back of your mind.
Syndicated columnist and speaker Marni Jameson has just relocated from Colorado to Florida. She is the author of “House of Havoc” and “The House Always Wins” (Da Capo Press). Contact her through .
A sentimental journey
I spend more than a lot of time thinking about homes. And the past few months, I’ve thought a lot about my attachment to my home, and what that means. Here’s what I know.
There’s a time to let go. A home is supposed to nurture, not stifle, those who live in it, and enable, not hinder, growth. When a home saddles you with more limits than possibilities, it may be time to move.
Yes, it’s emotional. Of course, I feel a pang as I leave the home where I’ve raised my children for almost eight years. Yes, I can easily get choked up — and have — about it all. But, while a home bears memories on its walls, it is just a building. My true home will always be wherever my family is.
Lighten up. No matter how lean you think you live, packing to move is the real test. I found we’d stocked away more stuff than a village of house rats. We filled our truck bed three times with Goodwill donations, plus another truck for Habitat for Humanity, and a Dumpster. It felt good.
Renting is not for other people. Six months ago, I thought renting was for younger, less-established people. But it’s a hot solution for those in higher-end housing too.
Watch your mouth. Do not ever, ever, talk to a real estate agent about selling or renting your home unless you’re as serious as a letter bomb.
