I am exhausted by this latest round of “what matters most now” when it comes to where we live.

When we were in our thirties shopping for our first house we factored in school districts and potential play dates.  In our forties it was a bigger house in a better school district. A short commute into the city was important to maximize dad time.  And, of course, we always wanted to live somewhere distinctive and beautiful.

There were some compromises and plenty of projects with every house, but for the most part we were happy with our decisions. Now we have fewer parameters, but I still want:

1. Good light and vistas.

2. Thoughtful architecture.

3. Accessible garden space.

Specifically, I want to have sunlight from at least two sides in most rooms and see colorful blossoms, green trees or blue sky outside my windows.  I like expansive (not necessarily large) public rooms and more moderate private quarters with a few elements of surprise along the way. As to gardens, I can thrive in sun or shade as long as there’s a bit of dirt to dig in.

Anything I’m forgetting? (Help! This whole process has me quite sleep-deprived.)

Actually, not every possibility.  Some of the options have been so bad I’d be afraid to introduce them to my hairdresser, let alone my mother or my children.  In the two months we’ve been selling our home (sold! twice!!) I’ve looked at 30 + options and some of them were real stinkers.

There was the downtown Oakland apartment complex where my husband figured he’d need to buy a pair of mesh basketball shorts just to fit in with the 20-something crowd.  Then there was the ‘60s penthouse condo off Piedmont Ave. that could have been sort of Mad Men hip if you weren’t mugged on your way through the complex and survived the rickety elevator ride.

But some options were truly tempting. We thought seriously about the luxury condos at Jack London Square.  The views are incredible, but the units are so small we decided we’d also need a Napa vineyard for weekend retreats. And frankly, that’s just not in the budget. The townhouses in Emeryville were nice enough but seemed more newlywed-appropriate. And the view of the YMCA parking structure from the one true loft space I saw was not all that elevating.

Still, I’ve thought about shacking up with all of them.  I’ve imagined how we’d entertain guests on a sunny Sunday and how we’d curl up by the fireplaces (fake or real) on rainy evenings. I’ve dreamed of where we’d fall asleep and where we’d have breakfast together.

I was heartbroken when the charming bungalow I hoped to acquire turned out to be leased already and elated to find that a few rare listings are actually better in real life than in the pictures. I’ve spent sleepless nights trying on dreams of happily ever after behind picket fences, concierge guarded lobbies and woodland creeks.

But I need to stop playing the field. If I don’t settle down soon, I won’t be able to enjoy the last few days here. Time to commit.

Sources: Reworked vintage English Royal Stafford cups and saucers from trixiedelicious on Etsy.

“I barely made it through The Artist,” my husband said when I proposed this open house diversion to him.

“It’s a once in a lifetime event,” I countered. “And there will be a BIG dinner break.”

So we went.  And we loved it.  I’m sorry that it isn’t playing another weekend so I could tell you all that it really was worth the time and the money and the nap beforehand so you could go.  But it was a pretty much sold-out smash hit so maybe it will come again.  Or it will play somewhere else and you should see it.  Really. Now that he’s seen it, my husband would tell you to go as well.

Why all the raves?

Well, the imagery was terrific.  I especially loved the early scenes of young Napoleon at the boarding school in the snow.  Our film professor friend Mark Sandburg happened to be at the same showing we were. He told us that Kevin Brownlow, the British film editor responsible for reconstructing the film from scattered bits,  had spoken to his class at U.C. Berkeley in the past week and said the greatest day of his life was when he found the extra snowball fight footage.

 I was intrigued at how contemporary the men looked.  Robespierre sported hip, round sunglasses and Marat wore a headband and leopard lapelled coat that could have come straight out of Keith Richard’s wardrobe.  And Napoleon, well, he could have used a better haircut, but he was actually quite dashing.

The women, however, did not evoke a contemporary ideal of beauty.  Josephine was pudgy with a prominent chin and an overbite full of small teeth that flashed in a gummy smile.  But she was memorable, which is more than I can say for many of the look-a-like femme fatales of today.

The score was fabulous.  The audience raucous.  And the big triptych finale with three enormous screens displaying separate images in shades of red, white and blue to evoke the French flag was spectacular.

For a quick peek at some highlights, watch this .

Oh, and we came home to an offer on the house. A challenging offer— sacre bleu! Would selling our house be our Waterloo? The next morning we received a better offer. With any luck, this would prove to be our Toulon.

All those declarations of love regarding my ruby-red kitchen, the exquisite original molding and the rose-filled garden were for nought. Apparently, an attached two-car garage and closer proximity to the grade school seduced them and, poof, they were gone.  Hard not to feel like a jilted bride.

“What goes around comes around,” said our indignant realtor as we explored What’s Next.  It’s nice when people articulate your bitter feelings so you don’t have to.

After curling up in fetal positions on opposite ends of the sofa that night, we rallied and resumed staging the house. This weekend it will officially go on the market and  there will be a parade of new potential buyers through our doors and maybe this time love will stick. At least the hopeless romantic in me likes to think so.

Which must be why I’m having a hard time doing more than eating, sleeping and staring at house listings on Craig’s List.  Out of the blue, a buyer came calling and we’re in contract to sell the family home. It’s something we’ve been talking about doing for several years now.  In fact, in 2009 when our youngest graduated from high school we put our home on the market–right as the housing market crashed and no one was buying homes.

Even one as lovely as ours.  ”It’s just a mystery why the Pritchetts’ house isn’t selling,” our realtor reported other realtors saying. “It’s such a great house.”

Ultimately, we  took our great house off the market. And for the last three years we’ve made more happy memories here. But always there was the nagging sense that it was time to move on to smaller, more sustainable shelter.

And so, a few weeks ago when a serious buyer came along we entertained an offer.  And now a deal has been struck and our time here is soon to end.  If all goes as planned, in a month I  am going to move away and “right size” from the place where I raised my children and grew up myself.

But where to go?  My husband still has gainful employment here in San Francisco.  Our friends and church community are here—specifically in the East Bay. Even if the physical abode changes, this area is still home to our children.  Those elements help set some parameters. We want to move nearby.  And given the quick close of escrow, we’ll need to rent so we can experiment a bit with location and type of housing, knowing that the move will be temporary.

“Makes me feel young again,” said my husband as we drove around Oakland last weekend driving by potential rental homes.

We felt less youthful as the day wore on and more ready for a nap.  Hunting for a new home is hard work.  But the day ended with a surprising (to me) possibility. I’ll share more after I’ve seen more, but for now it’s time to generate another list for this weekend’s hunt.  Oh, and this round I’m packing snacks.