The first step is calling a realtor

We've been talking about moving for just about as long as I've lived here. We keep, however, finding reasons to put it off. We need to save more money. We need to paint the bedroom. We ought to convert our front yard to a springtime oasis year-round or perhaps build an addition that would rival a wing of the Biltmore.

Over the weekend we spied a house that we took a liking to. This has happened before, mind you, but we keep going back to our original excuses and never seem to make a move. This time, however, we decided it was time to take a step, just one step or we'd never be stepping our way out the door and into a new place.

And I e-mailed a realtor. And that one simple e-mail put into motion all sorts of things. First of all, the realtor wanted to meet with us. Oh, no, we aren't good at first impressions. . . and neither is our house. It's too cluttered. It's too dusty. We need to paint the foundation. We need to put bow ties on the cats and comb our hair.

On Thursday she'll come to our house and we'll use the time between now and then to clear our out basement and I'm practicing my best Jackie-O-provides-a-White-House-tour act. And, we'll get to see inside the house we might be interested in.

Between now and then we'll start moving our unused stuff to a storage facility in an effort to try to make it look like: 1. I'm not a packrat and 2. Our house is airy and open. And it is agreed that in the meantime I'll start tossing stuff, making a sale pile and ridding us of the junk we just don't need. Funny thing, though, I can fill box after box of stuff to toss, but I find myself a tad more attached to some things I probably should shed: a box of letters, 38 years of Pez dispensers, a dozen old hats. What is it about people and thier stuff. . . it becomes part of us. Am I the only one? Cynical doesn't have an affinity for stuff like I do. He doesn't attach memories in the way I seem to.

I'm more than a tad nervous about strangers going through our house, but I think that is going to have to happen if we ever plan to sell. Are they going to talk about my furniture. Will they notice that we have four cats. What will they think about my dusty, smelly basement. And suddenly I am defending the very place we want to rid ourselves of. It's a paradox of sorts.

I hate to cut this short, but I have to dust the baseboards, change that lightbulb and convince the cats not to make any unecessary smells.