Selling one’s house is so much fun. Since I’m alone now, except for Fluffy and Brownie and Wolf Blitzer, a full-fledged house and a full-fledged yard seem a bit much.
I can feign an interest in gardening but the flowers can sense false affection and I am pretty sure they are out to get me. As Galadriel said in The Lord of the Rings, “I can smell it in the air, I can taste it in the water.” Unless it’s just the chlorine.
So I got an agent, a nice man who seems to work about 22 hours a day. If this guy’s iPad ever breaks down, the subsequent thunderstorm of angst will not be pretty.
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While his assistant took pictures, he walked around the house, noting this and that, measuring here and there, humming softly, never laughing (out loud) at the oddities a 50-year-old house can and must have, eventually coming up with a number. A number of dollars that might be extracted from someone with an interest in taking over the place.
Getting to that point took a month and about two dozen showings. Showings are for houses, viewings are for dead people. Showing a house means you’re supposed to make the bed and make sure your glow-in-the-dark undies are stowed away. That grow-op that took so long to get off the ground could be a problem.
During a showing, the owner is encouraged to make himself scarce. I complied although the temptation was strong to shadow a few clients and take cryptic notes.
Well, eventually an offer was generated. This was supposed to make me happy but it had quite the opposite effect. That’s because houses evoke memories. The maple tree that once could barely cast a shadow now is bigger than the house itself. The birds will not have me around to make them fat. Or the cats around to make them dead. Yin and yang.
Nevertheless a home inspection was scheduled to assure the buyers that they are not moving into a death trap. This will take three hours.
It’s just a little house on the prairie, not Downton Abbey. My butler, blacksmith and cooper have to share one room, for pity’s sake.
