My long national nightmare ...

It's Thursday. My real estate agent and I have to decide whether or not to hold an open house this weekend. I so, so, so want this part of moving to be over. I want someone to love my apartment like I do, to promise to take care of it – and to give me lots of money for it. It seemed like that was happening two weeks ago when a woman made the perfect offer. All cash. Closing date just days before my planned move. And she seemed to adore my apartment. It would be in good hands. The fact that it was all coming together seemed like a sign from the Universe that I'd made the right decision, that my life was moving in the right direction after years of not moving in any direction at all. I rarely let myself get excited with abandon. But when that offer came in, I was ecstatic. A day later, the deal fell through. I was so fucking depressed I came home from work, got in bed and cried. Then I sat in the dark drinking wine and watching "Dancing with the Stars" until my fiancé came home. A few days later, the same woman with the killer offer came sniffing back. Our lawyers are talking. Contracts are being drawn up. But the joy has been sucked out. It might go through, it might not. I can't get excited until the ink is dry. And that's why we might have an open house.