Sunday, June 20, 2010
Where are we going? Crazy, for now...
You know when you’re trying to pack all your personal effects to move across the state with three kids under foot while also preparing to put your house on the market? And amidst all this you have conversations with your former real-estate agent father in which you’re told to fast-forward to a short-sell because the market’s so bad. Then your daughter looks at you with dewy eyes and asks, “Why don’t you take very good care of our yard?” so you cry hard enough to hiccup yourself to sleep. I hate it when that happens.
I am so stressed that I think my brain might implode. Really. Astral projection, spontaneous combustion, brain implosion. I’m sure they’re all in the same book on the supernatural published by Time Magazine and found on my grandmother’s bookshelf right in between the book on Nostradamus and the novel Futility.
As I move into this precarious state called Limbo, where I’m between destinations and completely unsettled, I realize how ridiculous it is to manage a meticulous household with three young kids. My children, I’ve discovered, are drawn to the cleanest parts of my home like I’m drawn to the super nacho. My Facebook friends tell me it’s something called Unchartered Territory Syndrome (UTS) and that no child is immune.
To prove my point, Sis decided to water the bushes adjacent to the newly squeegeed windows while Spunk spray painted packing boxes in our garage and Sport, in a fit of self-sufficiency never before witnessed, decided to rinse his muddy t-shirt in the bathroom sink, leaving enough forensic evidence to choke an entire CSI unit. And that was just yesterday.
Please tell me why we like to look at clean houses anyway? Who I am I kidding to see a Heloise-inspired residence and feel at home? Sellers would be better off marketing to my demographic by tossing a few happy-meal toys on the floor amidst candy wrappers and Wii remotes. Now that’s an environment to which I can relate.
But, of course, I can’t think about looking for houses until I’ve actually sold this one. And I’d be lying if I said that’s not a thought that keeps me up at night. In fact, I’ve taken to carrying a paper bag in my back pocket so that when people begin sharing their real estate nightmares, and everyone seems to have one, I can take it out and do some deep breathing exercises so that I don’t hyperventilate. Although, hyperventilation is preferable to brain implosion, right?
For the record, I’m completely above using my blog to shamelessly promote the sale of my home. However, I would welcome any of my three readers to call my agent for more information (her name begins with Nina and ends with Baldwin). That, or you could look for the house on the numbered streets with the crazy woman chasing her kids around the yard with a squeegee.
Until then, I will continue to blog from the convenience of this strait-jacket, thank you very much.