In a couple of weeks, we're moving back to Minneapolis. Or not.
Our story so far:
Thanks to two awful things—my sister's heart attack and the collapse of the US's housing bubble—Emma and I have enough money to buy a small home in a working-class neighborhood in some cities. Alas, that doesn't include Los Angeles, or we would happily go back there. We love our current abode in Arizona where we've been caretakers, but it's a bit isolated, and at heart, Emma and I are city folk who love the country, not vice versa.
Two of our favorite cities, Tucson and Minneapolis, were both hit hard by the housing collapse, so we've been studying them closely. Despite the cold, Minneapolis edged out Tucson in a couple of areas: proximity to Emma's family and a light rail system.
So we put an offer in for a house there a few months ago. We dickered with the bank until they gave a verbal agreement for the price we wanted to pay—and that evening, we heard that a new buyer was prepared to pay more than we could.
Which made us think the fates wanted us in Tucson. But on the very day that we were looking there, we got a call from our realtor pal in Minneapolis about another house that might please us.
The fast version: it did, we offered, they accepted. But this house is a short sale, meaning several people have claims on it and all have to sign off, a process that takes a month or two. We waited patiently. Last week, the papers seemed to have cleared. We paid for an inspection—and the basement was extremely damp. Which would call for putting in a drainage system. Which would cost more than we hoped to spend.
But it turned out the seller had come by that morning to turn the water on for the inspection, and the faucet had broken, soaking the basement. The inspector returned a couple of days later, and all looked good.
Time to celebrate? We thought so. I reserved a moving container from a shipping company this morning.
And I just got this email from our realtor pal: "the title work indicates that there are some judgments against the sellers that will have to be dealt with. I hope this does not become a problem for us."
So, uh, we're moving in a couple of weeks. Or later. To Minneapolis. Or Tucson. Or elsewhere.
I ain't asking for commiseration—I wish everyone without hope of a home had our problems. This is just an explanation of why, sometime soon, we may announce with little warning that we're moving.
ETA: Under "God plots like a bad writer sometimes": we heard that our offer on the current house had been accepted on the same day we heard my mother had died.
Also, this post could've been written up as "The Xenos are moving..."