Things left behind

I've decided that my posts are too dang long.

That's all I'm going to say about that right now.

I'd rather talk about something that's sticking in my craw, whatever a craw is.

We spent $6,000 on painting our house, inside and out. Another $300 went to professionals for a deep cleaning. At least $1,000 was invested in home decor, such as plants, pillows, carpet, and patio furniture. We cleaned out every single cabinet, closet and drawer in this house. Hubby straightened up the garage, where he'd neatly stacked boxes we'd packed with knickknacks, books and appliances we could do without during the staging. I put new plants in my garden, and watered it every other day. Cleaned the house daily, got after my 3 year old when she made any kind of mess, and made my bed more times in two months than since we bought this place. At our gnawing inconvenience, I stored our toothbrushes, toiletries, and shower supplies way deep under the sink, so as not to offend anyone with our natural decay. Before open houses, I traveled downtown to pick up fresh flowers and made arrangements for display in various rooms. I learned how to use the vaccuum cleaner. Now, that's saying something, if you knew me.

We did what you are supposed to do to sell your home. It's the cost of making money. We're not special. And some people would call what we did basic upkeep. So, why I am prattling on about all this, and risking yet another drawn-out post?

It's because when I go to somebody else's open house, after all our efforts, I get offended when people leave out all manner of objectional, disgusting, and out-and-out wrong personal items. Who do they think. they. are? Don't open your house, if you're not willing to clean it up. Period. Nobody wants to deal with your filth.

Or, your Playboy magazine left on the sink. At this particular house, I spied a young girl a few paces away, so I quickly threw the thing in the toilet. When I came back with hubby a week later, it was still there. That was the day my hippy moccassin came off as I was climbing the staircase, causing me to plunge my foot into a horribly dirty, gluey remnant of carpet. I looked back and saw my hubby on the porch. He had been up on the second floor when he suddenly began worrying about our health, having walked around mounds of debris, tightly protecting our wriggly preschooler.

At one house, I saw a cup of curdled milk left behind in a bedroom. Hubby (who I need to think of a better name for) said it smelled very bad everywhere in that house. I didn't know; lucky for me, I had a bad cold. And they left their huge, mangy, barking dogs behind. Why would a seller want potential buyers worry whether about they are risking their lives to step foot in your backyard? Or, to wonder who might pop out of a closet door, since there were threats and cries for anarchy spray-painted all over the bedroom walls. This is the same place with the missing oven door. Begging the question: Did the paramedics take it off? After viewing that home, you'd want a bath and perhaps to sit down somewhere and pray for about an hour to wash that house off. An open house shouldn't be so traumatic. This one was the talk of the neighborhood, for weeks later. Seemed everyone had been there and had a story.

A house can be clean, but it doesn't matter if a seller leaves out personal items that make it virtually impossible for anyone to imagine living in their home. This was the case with one house, that was way out of our price range. Who am I to say what defines art, but I think it is a good idea to take down paintings of dead people. I don't mean, people who have passed away, and here's a portrait of them. But I mean, roadkill with their eyes open, laying on the floor. These same sellers left a wad of cash on their dresser, an expensive digital camera in a closet, and a full ashtray on the patio. It all just came across as contemptuous. Or, high, as my hubby thought, upon seeing all the rocker gear strewn about. I'm not feeling buying a house where people got high.

And maybe they wouldn't sell it to me.

We had our hearts open to whomever would buy our house, and stripped it down to make it devoid of who we are. But I have to say, we were happy that when our only offer eventually came, it was from people who are just like us. Maybe, sometimes, what people leave behind is no accident.

Just one little cross in a closet.

Fake Shui

I've decided that a house is kind of like a child. Your child. You note the imperfections, but you find them charming. Who wouldn't fall in love at first sight? And all cleaned up and sparkly? Our house had on its Sunday best. Who could resist?

Our agent was bubbly. Though we'd gone against her wishes, and priced it a little high, she wasn't worried. "This house is going to go!" she proclaimed. We just weren't going to get full price. She was sure of that.

We had open houses every Sunday. The people filed through. They ate the chocolate-covered strawberries and Subway sandwiches our agent set out. Our house winked and wriggled its precious little nose. People patted it on the head, and said, "Aw. Aren't you cute?" Some even made grandiose promises to make an offer. But they never did.

I began to wonder if my house stank. You know what I mean. It's like when you miss your shower and you think no one notices, because you're used to your own funk. I scrubbed harder. Three weeks passed in total. No offers.

One night I wrote a long email to our agent full of ideas, asking her to be honest, to let me know what's wrong with our house.

She called the next morning. "Would you mind if I brought in a feng shui expert?" I cringed and was intrigued and amused all at once. In other words, I didn't know what to say besides, "No." Knowing our Christian bent, she assured me without my asking that this was not a religion. This, I had read before, in a real estate article. Whatever. Bring her on, I thought.

This woman, who we'll call Stella, arrived with a suitcase of full of candles and incense and a skull around her neck. Undaunted, I determined to weed through her philosophy and focus on her decorating tips. She was a fast talker, and I was thankful for my reporting background as I quickly scribbled notes. Stella started outside, telling me to put black pots on my porch with red flowers, as she waxed on about chi as though I knew what the heck that was. Said when I planted my rose garden, which I hadn't planted in the first place, I was telling people to stay away, what with all the thorns. Inside, she told me take down my family pictures, dissed my living room furniture, and told me our goldfish was good chi. Or is that chee? She said silk flowers shouldn't be in the house, but if they are, should be thrown away in three months. Tried to tell me that some woman who lived in a mansion began recovering from a severe illness after she got rid of her silk plants, as she'd told her to do.

At this point, I began to giggle under my breath. Because people buy this, Stella is driving a Lexus SUV. I kept writing down notes on my pad to maintain my even demeanor. Or chee. Or whatever. I'm not even going to look up that word.

She adored my daughter's room, thought our master was too crowded, but loved a votive with chinese lettering I had on my dresser. Stella suggested that I remove all crosses from the walls in our house, and that's when I realized that it was kind of like a church up in there. The feng shui expert said she is Jewish, and the crosses might make Jewish buyers feel unwelcome. I don't care about feng shui, but that made me feel bad. I left one up in my closet, and had my husband take down all the others.

The tour of shame ended and we landed in my entry way, right next to her bag of tricks. My husband was on the front porch, and I could hear him entertaining our daughter. Then she was digging in this bag and pulling out incense and candles telling me what she was going to do to my house. I heard something about dragon's blood incense and whoa. Apparently seeing the look of horror on my face, our agent stopped and asked if I was OK with all this. Stella explained, in that endearing, condescending way of hers that had charmed me so, that there were no such thing as dragons. I needn't be concerned, she proferred, with a wave of her hand.

Sending women's rights back to the 1950s, I uttered, "I need to ask my husband." I beckoned him inside. He explained, quick-witted sort that he is, that I have "allergies." Stella couldn't say anything about that. But she begged to ring her Bali bell, to wake the house up, because, houses "talk" to her. OK, fine, we said. I was grateful when, to save herself time, she sent me off with red painter's tape to seal off all the money that was escaping from our house. My assignment was to wrap the tape around every pipe, under the sinks, behind the toilets--everywhere. I had to bite my lip hard as she handed me the roll.

As I ascended the stairs on my quest, I heard the bell ringing and her humming and that, that is when I finally lost it. I made it upstairs to our bathroom, holding my stomach and squelching my giggles. My poor husband, left behind on the entryway bench--well, I felt sorry for him. He'd nowhere to hide. When the bell ringing ended, I heard her start in about the candles, explaining to him that we needed one to bless our house. And that would be $19.95, thank you.

"Wait a minute. I'm paying for this?" he barked. The wheels were off the cart. I was in tears, my cheeks hurt. The agent stepped in, said she was paying for it. I composed myself and came back down.

At that point, Stella had ascended into fortune telling mode. She was explaining to our agent that she didn't have that many "business candles" in stock because Endora, or whoever it is that makes them, was waiting until the full moon ascended to the nth degree over Troy, or some crap like that.

Stella then turned to me and said that the house told her that I was the reason it wouldn't sell. I wouldn't let it go.

Now, who in the world easily "lets go" of their house, unless they just hate it? Or, they're flippers. It's their home. Stella was on auto-pilot with the fortune telling routine at this point. The house was sad, she said it said. She lectured us to tell it we loved it and then let it go. And with that, she gave us the candle, collected her $19.95 plus whatever else our agent paid her and was gone.

By this point, our agent, despite her near constant lateness, has endeared herself to us. There was no reason for her to explain, after Stella left, that she was just trying to be nice. We got that. She cares.

And we used that candle alright. Hubba hubba.