My husband and I have finally decided to join the mass exodus from the Urban Jungle of  Los Angeles to the Promised Land of Calabasas. This is not a decision we made lightly. As much as I gripe about living in West LA, I actually love it here.

From my house, I can walk to several great coffee shops where I imbibe my required daily allotment of caffeine. There are excellent restaurants, fantastic yoga studios, and the legendary Brentwood shopping boutiques, where you can buy a glorified schmata for three-hundred dollars.  The farmer’s market is one block from my house where every Sunday you can watch overly toned and botoxed women stuff organic mandarin oranges into their Prada bags (no, I am not referring to myself, Lauren!) There is a lovely park one block from my house where I take my children to play while I spy on other moms so I can later blog about them. It sounds perfect, right? Why would we ever want to leave such a paradise?

For starters, our house is a shit-hole. We had high hopes when we moved in two years ago. Unfortunately, the inspection of the property prior to us moving in did not reveal that our sewage pipe was eroded, the electrical wiring was shot, and there was mold and mildew in the structure of the house. We also need fresh carpeting, new toilets, and probably need to replace the heating unit. The water pressure is for crap and there are ants in our garage.

We have already invested a ton of money towards the repair and remediation of this property, but there is much more that needs to be done to make this house livable and comfortable. The idea of undergoing a major house reconstruction with three children and a husband who is frequently out of town is not an appealing concept to me. I have talked to many of my friends who have barely survived the process of remodeling their homes, and the unanimous suggestion is that I avoid going down this path at any cost.

My husband recognizes that the stress of a remodel could potentially land me in a rehab facility or mental institution. Since he kind of likes having me around, (except when I am having PMS when he would gladly check me into an asylum), moving is our only option. Additionally, after weighing the collective cost of remodeling a house plus a stint in rehab or a psych ward, it is definitely more cost effective to move to Calabasas. And you can get a brand new, obnoxiously large McMansion there for the same price as a tear-down dump here.

So, we have decided to take the easier path and bolt to the land of Gated Utopia and Homogeny, where you can actually park your car without paying some asshole valet ten bucks. Now that there is a “For Sale” sign out in front of our house, I have to field many comments and questions from my friends. These conversations often leave me completely spun out and unsure about the decision we have made to move. Recently, an acquaintance of mine accosted me at Whole Foods.  As I was selecting Pink Lady apples in the produce section, I felt a tap on my shoulder, “Jennifer! Did I really see a “For Sale” sign in front of your house?” she inquired.

“Yes” I replied,  mentally trying to come up with an exit strategy. I knew where this was going.

“Why are you selling your house? You are not moving, are you?” she was incredulous.

“Yes, we are actually moving to Calabasas!” I reluctantly admitted, for I knew the bombardment of questions that was coming.

“Calabasas! No way! I totally don’t see you as a Calabasas-Type. You will definitely need to get a boob-job if you move to Calabasas. All the women there are like StepFord Wives with fake boobs!” she snickered.

“I better find a surgeon quick!” I responded, praying for a small earthquake or other emergency so I could get the hell away.

Now the fun really began. “But have you sold your house yet? The market really sucks right now! You are going to lose a ton of money. Have you bought a new house yet? My cousin is a broker and he says it is impossible to get a mortgage. What about the schools? Have you gotten Shane into a new preschool yet? You better get him on some list! I heard you can’t get into any of the good preschools there!”

The answers to these questions are respectively “No, we have not sold our house yet,” and  “No, we have not gotten a mortgage yet” and “Hell-no, I have not even thought about getting Shane on a preschool list yet, but thank you for giving me something new to flip out about.”

When I got home, I confronted my husband. “How the hell are we going to move if we haven’t even sold our house yet? How are we going to get a new mortgage? What about school for the kids? This is a freaking crazy idea!”

He didn’t even look up from his laptop as he responded in his unnervingly calm manner, “Honey, it will all work out. We are moving to Calabasas by the end of the summer.”

“How? How are we going to make this work?” I was almost hyperventilating. The crazy thing is, even though it seemed like an incredibly far-fetched idea at the moment, my husband does always manage to make the most impossible things work out.

“Where is this coming from? Did someone say something to you again?” My husband knows me too well. My acute episodes of anxiety are often triggered by other people’s questions or comments. Despite all my years in therapy as both a client and a clinician, I still have not figured out how to stay calm in these situatiuons.

“Every day people ask me why there is a ‘For Sale’ sign in front of our house! How should I answer them?” I was frantic.

“Tell them it is because our house is for sale, and walk away,” my 12 year old step-daughter quickly offered with a shrug.

What a revelation! When people approach me with intrusive questions about our moving situation, I feel obligated to give them a blow-by-blow report of our personal finances. As I struggle to respond to questions that really have no answer yet, I create so much unnecessary anxiety for myself. The idea that I could simply offer a brief explanation without any other information was incredibly liberating.  The truth is, most people don’t really care anyway. They are simply trying to make conversation, while I feel like I am on the witness stand defending my life choices.

So, if you happen to drive by my house and see a “For Sale” sign out front, it is because we are definitely moving to Calabasas. Our hope is to buy a house at the top of the hill in one of those gated communities that have a clubhouse and a basketball court, where everyone knows everyone else and you don’t even have to lock your front door.

But, if we are unable to sell our home and get a mortgage, then you will find us in a tent pitched at the bottom of the hill, where I will be home-schooling our children. As long as I can walk to a Starbucks, I will be fine!

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 26th, 2009 at 5:36 pm and is filed under 1. Angst Mom Essays. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.