Yesterday afternoon, my realtor Candy called to tell me that another realtor wanted to show my house that evening at
“That’s kind of late,” I replied with a sigh. “But we’ll do what we’ve got to do.”
Keeping one’s house in constant “showing” condition is a joy akin to being pecked to death by a flock of chickens.
After driving aimlessly around our town for thirty minutes, we returned home to find the realtor’s car still parked in our driveway. Our kids—who normally go to bed at
“We have to get them to bed,” I told my husband moments after telling Twins A & B to keep all appendages to themselves for the eighteenth time in two minutes.
Thus began the impatient wait. At
“What are they doing in there?” Tim wondered out loud. “Taking a nap?”
I decided to take a peek.
Tim parked the car on the street behind our house and stayed with the kids while I walked through two neighbors’ yards to the edge of ours. Hiding in the bushes under the cover of darkness, I was able to catch a clear view through the rear sliding glass door of two strangers crawling on their hands and knees across my kitchen floor.
The spectacle confirmed what I long suspected: my house is a magnet for crazies.
“Why is this happening to me?” I asked myself.
Before I could answer, I caught a glimpse of a furry blob race across the room and pounce on one of the strangers.
The potential home buyers were playing with my cat. Their realtor stood by the door and watched.
Over the next ten minutes, the strangers tested every cat toy in our house. They also opened every cupboard door, thumbed through several cookbooks, and flipped through my wall calendar.
Finally, at
“They better buy the house,” my husband growled.
“They better give us more than our asking price,” I replied. Our kids were out of their minds by the time we got them into their beds.
Candy called me this morning with the other realtor’s feedback.
The strangers didn’t like the house. It was too small for their needs...and in the wrong school district.
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