Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Come, Look into my Cave
Having our house on the market is like going to the gynecologist. I have everything all cleaned-up and smelling purty, but there is no getting away from the feeling that my legs are up in stirrups and there are no secrets. It's humbling. No, its mortifying.
I have to invite strangers into my house to evaluate and poke around my cave but I'm not allowed to give any reasons (excuses) for why things are they way they are. For example, if I was the tour guide I would explain that I really meant to buy new pillow cases and no, we did not spill root beer on them. I would explain that the giant TV was my husband's idea and I had to oblige in order to get the sofa that sits in front of it.
It's like filling out a health history at the ob/gyn and there are just boxes to check and dates to fill in. There is no extra page where you can explain that it was the '80's and you are a much better person now. Nor is there a page to stick old photographs of "him" so to prove that you were completely powerless and, if given the chance, most of the women here would have done it too.
Either way, I just don't want people to not say "yuk." Dry rot - crotch rot, it's all the same thing. [Note: I have never had crotch rot] Then, after the nightmare has ended, I'll get an offer on the house or a note from the doctor and it will tell me how I measured up in the world. If I've had any Deferred Maintenance issues. Yuk.
It doesn't matter how many posters you put on the ceiling, I know where I am and I know what's happening.