I woke up in a panic today over selling the house. I haven’t been too worried about it until all the sudden, for no reason, it became really important.
It’s June. JUNE. We’re still nowhere near that magical phase of construction where we get to pick out carpet and paint colors–but I’m feeling a terrible urgency to just be ready.
You might call it nesting. I might call it “My house is trashed and it will take no less than a solid 2 months to whip it into selling shape.” By which time, of course, I’ll have a giant beast baby fervently trying to claw its way out of my pregnancy-ravaged body, and there will be no cleaning or staging or last-minute showing of any house that I reside in.
De-cluttering? Not a huge deal in my opinion. I’ve always been somewhat of an un-pack rat. Caleb can thank my inner-military brat for the swift manner in which I get rid of junk. I’m so awesome at it.
The challenge will be selling a house wrought with clear evidence of thriving canine life. I sweep 3 times a day which does nothing to make a dent in the obscene amount of fur covering the floor. And what to do with the dog paraphernalia? A buyer might take issue with the two 3ft X 5ft crates smack dab in the center of the living room. Heck, I take issue with them, and I live here.
And also kids and toys and dishes and laundry and birds and mud-nests and dust and did I mention that Caleb caught a horny toad yesterday? He and the kids are bound and determined to keep it in the house, along with a sandy cage and a heat lamp. I don’t think they realize that it eats bugs and poops–yet another haunting aroma to mask with a roomful of Glade plug-ins.
Other problem areas include:
- Caleb’s office: is it possible to set fire to just one room?
- The garage: oy.
- The attic: Sweet Lord, help us make 2 house payments for the next 50 years.
It’s about to get real.
Whosoever dares to be our realtor will have to be worth their weight in dog hair.