Hungover, Horrified and Humbled
Our prospective Realtor came today to look at the house to tell us what she thought we should ask for it. I loved her. So I did NOT hurl on her shoes.
We went to dinner at some friends' house last night and I felt the need to drink all of the wine in the world. Haven't done THAT in a while and now I remember why it's such a bad, bad idea. My hair hurt this morning.
The thing that's so sad is that it doesn't take that much wine to make me (and my hair) feel terrible the next day. I really hate this getting old thing.
Anyway, the Realtor came and we walked all over our incredibly cluttered house. She was hilarious and managed to tell me that my house was cluttered and that we really need to do some work on our front entry and power wash the outside of the house and mortar the cracks that have appeared because the house has settled, etc., all without hurting my feelings. I mean, I KNEW a lot of those things anyway and it's her JOB to tell me those things without hurting my feelings but I appreciate that she did it so well, especially given my --ahem-- fragile state. She didn't even seem to mind Scout.
And then we had the impromptu showing of the house to the people who called us as soon as they heard we were moving. I'm thinking they were simply stunned by the sheer amount of crap we have everywhere --I know *I* am. But they were so nice and he even played ball with Scout, which, just so you know, always involves picking up a saliva-soaked tennis ball. He was not even grossed out about it, but he did laugh when I told him I felt like I should offer him my shirt to wipe his hands on.
So, they were very nice and maybe they will buy my house and then I won't have to do everything in the world to it before we leave.
This process is so weird, though, because it gives you an entirely new perspective on the place where you live. Like, there are all these things that I just don't even see anymore--like the shutters with those godawful hearts cut into them that STILL need replacing. And that the front porch needs painting and why have we lived so long with that popcorn ceiling everywhere? And why do have three different shades of white paint in the kitchen? And that I haven't noticed the squeaky floorboards upstairs in five or six years... It's just the strangest thing.
My husband feels exactly the same way. He was helping carry some stuff to the garage this weekend and he said, "Man, this place is kind of a dump." I guess maybe we just don't have the objective eyes to see all the scars we've inflicted on this house until we start thinking about other people living here and we start looking at this house like we're looking at new houses in New York. Because everywhere we look is our life, you know? I don't see the scuffed paint or the fraying carpet because I see the shadows of my kids growing taller and the hours we've spent playing dominoes on that carpet and peek-a-boo over that peeling banister.
Nevertheless, if you're looking for me the rest of the afternoon, I'll be painting. Some other family deserves a clean slate to make their own memories.
We went to dinner at some friends' house last night and I felt the need to drink all of the wine in the world. Haven't done THAT in a while and now I remember why it's such a bad, bad idea. My hair hurt this morning.
The thing that's so sad is that it doesn't take that much wine to make me (and my hair) feel terrible the next day. I really hate this getting old thing.
Anyway, the Realtor came and we walked all over our incredibly cluttered house. She was hilarious and managed to tell me that my house was cluttered and that we really need to do some work on our front entry and power wash the outside of the house and mortar the cracks that have appeared because the house has settled, etc., all without hurting my feelings. I mean, I KNEW a lot of those things anyway and it's her JOB to tell me those things without hurting my feelings but I appreciate that she did it so well, especially given my --ahem-- fragile state. She didn't even seem to mind Scout.
And then we had the impromptu showing of the house to the people who called us as soon as they heard we were moving. I'm thinking they were simply stunned by the sheer amount of crap we have everywhere --I know *I* am. But they were so nice and he even played ball with Scout, which, just so you know, always involves picking up a saliva-soaked tennis ball. He was not even grossed out about it, but he did laugh when I told him I felt like I should offer him my shirt to wipe his hands on.
So, they were very nice and maybe they will buy my house and then I won't have to do everything in the world to it before we leave.
This process is so weird, though, because it gives you an entirely new perspective on the place where you live. Like, there are all these things that I just don't even see anymore--like the shutters with those godawful hearts cut into them that STILL need replacing. And that the front porch needs painting and why have we lived so long with that popcorn ceiling everywhere? And why do have three different shades of white paint in the kitchen? And that I haven't noticed the squeaky floorboards upstairs in five or six years... It's just the strangest thing.
My husband feels exactly the same way. He was helping carry some stuff to the garage this weekend and he said, "Man, this place is kind of a dump." I guess maybe we just don't have the objective eyes to see all the scars we've inflicted on this house until we start thinking about other people living here and we start looking at this house like we're looking at new houses in New York. Because everywhere we look is our life, you know? I don't see the scuffed paint or the fraying carpet because I see the shadows of my kids growing taller and the hours we've spent playing dominoes on that carpet and peek-a-boo over that peeling banister.
Nevertheless, if you're looking for me the rest of the afternoon, I'll be painting. Some other family deserves a clean slate to make their own memories.
Comments
Just thought I'd point that out.
Probably the only thing worse than showing your house to a realtor (no matter how nice) would be to strip naked at a Weight Watcher's meeting and have everyone point out to you where you need to work on things a bit. With your weight flashing in big red neon numbers on a sign overhead. Not that I have nightmares about that, or anything.
I mean, seriously, I was literally cringing the whole time I showed her the house. Dying, slowly, inside with every room we entered and every closet we opened. Very awful. Words fail me. (And that's something.)
(I have no idea where that simile came from. I am overwrought, I tell you.)
It's just really a demeaning event, to see your house through not only another family's eyes but also the eyes of someone whose job it is to rip the place apart and tell you what has to be fixed. She was great, though. Even if she did actually say, "I need to reconfigure my projections of what we can get per square foot because I based them on thinking that your house was more fixed up than it is."
Oh, the glamour.
Even though it's my own fault.