Selling your home in a buyer’s market causes physical exhaustion, inflicts financial stress and delivers an emotional beating. Sellers who enjoy these circumstances are as rare as cats with insomnia.
We sold our place in 2010 after being on the market for what seemed like an eternity. The next time we sell, it better be because we’re moving to a tropical island. Otherwise, I’m staying put.
So I must be crazy to say there’s anything positive about living in “I’m-a-seller” purgatory. Let me explain. When our house was for sale, one of the ways we kept it lovely was to always have fresh flowers around – colorful bouquets in the living room, smaller arrangements in hand-blown vases for the bedrooms and miniature flowers in the bathrooms. It looked great and felt even better. I justified this expense as a necessary cost of creating the best impression on potential buyers.
After settling into our new home, this item was cut from the household budget as it was no longer “necessary”. So now whenever I pass by the supermarket flower displays, I pause and gaze longingly. I decide which blooms are the most attractive this week. Then I turn away, empty-handed.
The other thing I miss is coming home to a perfect, everything-is-done setting. Don’t get me wrong – drop-in visitors have always commented that our house is sooo neat. But when it was on the market, it was doubly clean.
The truth is I have a covert ally in keeping things spotless because I married well. No, we aren’t rich enough to bring in a housekeeper. I mean, I have a husband who loves a clean home and doesn’t mind doing housework. I’m told he kept everything tidy even as a child. He probably cleaned up the delivery room after birth.
And yet, he’s not one of those scary obsessive-compulsive types. You know, the ones who simply must have the spices in alphabetical order or their week is ruined. Plus he’s tall, dark and handsome. Did I mention I married well?
Hubby does, however, have certain ideas about how the housework should be done. He doesn’t like the way I load the dishwasher so he took over that chore. I am not allowed to use his beloved Dyson vacuum cleaner because the last time I did, it sucked up one of the cat’s toys and got clogged. I swear I did not intentionally cause that unfortunate mishap, but request that my attorney be present during questioning. Love means never having to vacuum.
A few years ago, I accidentally shrank one of his “never-put-this-in-the-dryer” shirts. Don’t know how that happened, but it was the last time I did laundry. Next week, I think I will shampoo the carpets. I’ve never done it before and can’t bear reading that boring instruction manual. But I’m sure things will turn out as planned.
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