Go into Kate's room and lie about the time. "It's almost 7." Silence. Process repeats. Finally I hear a muffled voice from the covers: "I'm up, I'm up."
To sum up what follows: Ned's working later hours today so he's still sleeping for a bit, I eat some cereal, check out a few minutes of Good Morning America and decide I'm not that interested in Brett Favre's non-ex-mistress, tell Kate no, those are all the clean clothes, see Kate get out the door, feed the four cats (see previous blog), medicate the shih tzu that the golden retriever partially blinded last week (it was an accident).
So it's now 8:15 AM, give or take. Kate's out, Ned's up and getting ready to clear out before the realtor arrives, David can sleep a bit longer before he has to leave with Ned. Time for me to start getting the house ready for the 10 AM showing.
It's all HGTV's fault. Home and Garden Television has raised the bar so high with "designing to sell" and "curb appeal" that home sellers struggle in vain to live up to televised expectations of home buyers. When the photos were taken for our online listing, the kitchen was so decluttered, it looked uninhabited. Kate's room looked terrific, with a bright, bold, green and blue Ikea comforter--who knew that the entirety of the contents of her teenage closet, which meant the contents of her floor, was out in the hallway?
The night before our first showing, which was the day before the open house, I literally did not go to bed. Ned does not know this. Please do not tell him. I had to find a place for all that stuff in the hallway, plus there were a hundred little projects I'd been meaning to get to. For years. A bit of peeling paint by the back door. a paint touch up in the walk-through linen closet, re-planting that pot of ivy for the library--you know, things that would make the difference between selling and not selling a half-million-dollar-plus house.
So, back to 8:15 AM. No painting, no potting to be done. Just straightening and turning all the lights on so it looks as if it's a bright and cheery house. Actually it is a bright house, but it's overcast and storms are expected later, so artificial light has to pull up the slack. Made all the beds, plumped the pillows, swept the kitchen, wiped the sink, stuffed a few of Kate's stray clothes under her bed, herded two cats into a crate in the basement (I've refined my cat-herding techniques, and I've decided two cats left in the house is a permissible and sane number), put the shih tzu in the crate in the kitchen and the retriever in the car.
By now it's 9 AM. Waking David up. Fast forward to 9:45, and David is finally up, and Ned's ready to go, too. They head off to the Haworth Library, where I'm sure David will fall back asleep in a big comfy chair. Quick, make David's bed, put the two maroon pillows on his black and grey bedspread (he hates those pillows), and wait for the Remax realtor (FYI, Sarah, our realtor, my friend, is on vacation in Florida this week, but never farther than a text away--I prefer to be here when someone goes through--the house is a little quirky and it's easy to miss a room, or a floor--the Remax realtor told me on the phone that quirky is good, her buyer is quirky, too.
9:55 AM. Remax realtor calls. They're running late. First quirk.
10 AM. I spray the front hall and kitchen with this "Zero" deodorizer stuff a friend gave me, in case there's a trace of cat, dog, or human being. We tried those Glade oil scent plug-ins, both in "Fresh Linen" and "Apple Cinnamon," but they left a strange after-odor, which was not pleasant and gave Kate and me headaches--then when a bit of the oil dripped on my chest-of-drawers and took off the paint, I threw them all away. I switched to chocolate chip cookies or deodorizer.
10:10 AM. Doorbell rings, and two young women come in, a blond and a brunette. Brunette's the realtor, blond's the buyer. Divorced with a two-year-old and four-year-old. Handshakes all round. Nothing quirky yet. I explain that I'll be the tour guide--fine.
We march through the house. She likes the openness, the history. I talk about all the places she can put toys for the kids. We're in the third floor guest bedroom when she gets quirky. Starts telling me about the ghost that her kids can see in her 1980s rental. Noone ever died there, she says, but maybe they're over an Indian burial ground, or the site of a Revolutionary War massacre. I assure her noone's ever died in the house and we have no ghosts, but apparently it's ok if they did and we have.
When the tour's over, realtor and prospect take another look or two. She wonders about gardening in the backyard--do I tell her there once was a huge black walnut back there and its root system destroyed any plant life except hostas? Nahhh... Maybe she can sense its ghost anyway.
10:42 I text Ned that the coast is clear and it's safe to come home.
Next!
Beth, You are a terrific writer! I predict that your house will sell soon! Much like its owners, it has character and charm!
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