It’s now 18 months and 13 days since we put our house up for sale. We have primed, painted, grouted, caulked, mudded and sanded our way to perfection. Okay, the house is not perfect, but it looks pretty darn good. We have overcome minor accidents (a hole punched in a gutter guard) and a major one (a flooded basement from a drinking glass left sitting in the refrigerator dispenser all night long). We’ve had visitors nearly every week and a couple of promising buyers, but no offers. What would Donna and Shannon Freeman say?
I imagine the HGTV stars walking along the path of my naturally landscaped front yard. One stops to admire my Daphne odora and right away a Manolo Blahnik sinks into a patch of clay where it remains stuck until she wrenches it, and her ankle, free. Daughter Shannon turns to her mom Donna and says, “A woodsy front yard? What were the sellers thinking?”
They enter our house and a shaft of light bounces off the granite countertops that I’ve cleaned to a burnished glow. “Oh, wow! I love these countertops!” says Donna. “The owners have really outdone themselves here. And these glass light fixtures are divine!”
“Look at this entertainment center, Mom,” says Shannon. “There’s stuff on every shelf.”
She pauses a moment and ponders the situation. Her face lights up and she says, “I think people really live here.”
Donna shrugs her shoulders and asks, “What were they thinking?”
I picture the real estate divas as they stroll through the rest of the main level, admiring our master bath, the heart-pine floors, and the linen closet whose contents are organized by color, size, texture and thread count. Then they arrive at the door of a bedroom and sniff in unison.
“Hmph!” Donna snorts. “I think a teenager lives here.”
“Oh, Mom, what were they thinking?”
The rest of the house tour goes as well as can be expected. There are a few more “oohs” and “aahs.” Their heads shake with dismay now and then. As they follow the path that meanders through the oak trees to return to their vehicle, I overhear Shannon tell her mother, “I certainly hope they’ve buried a statue of St. Joseph. They need all the help they can get.”
The phone rings and jolts me out of my reverie. “Four o’clock? Sure that would be fine,” I respond. “See you then.”
I hang up the phone and stick some chocolate chip cookies in the oven. I have to get this place ready to show in an hour. Gosh, what were we thinking?