Wednesday, August 8, 2001

 

12:46 a.m. I should start right off by saying that I may not be able (or I may not want) to write every single day here in this electronic journal in this see-saw month of August. Should I? Shouldn't I? I don't know.

There are so many things I don't know. I don't know whether or not the house will sell. Or whether or not we'll be moving soon. Or where. Or most certainly, when. I don't know when.

And if the house doesn't sell right off the bat, will it be because of the way it looks? The way I've arranged things? To my eye, it looks pretty spiffy ... but does it actually look like a granny's house? Old and doddering? (Not that there's anything wrong with Granny, but she's fallen out of favor these last few years.)

Too many video cassettes?

Too much reddish stuff?

Geegaws?

There's nothing worse than having people come through and look ... and I try to not follow them around and sometimes I succeed. We're not officially listed or anything, not yet, and the people who have been coming through have been friends of friends of the realtor and so they might be a little more forgiving ... but ... what do they see?

I like old things and whimsical things. I think I've built us a comfortable house, a happy house. But it isn't anywhere near swishy enough, I fear. It's certainly not what the agents call -- "pristine". It will, I will, never ever be pristine.

Smudges.

Bumps, bruises, nicks, chips, rips, scars, gouges, tears, dings, and scratches. Me and my house.

In spite of all of that, I have to be ready now whenever I get The Call -- stash the newspapers, make the bed, clean out the sink, pick up clothing, towels, you know the drill. Then, if there's time and I'm in the right mood, I will wander around with a bottle and some rags and I will spray things.

The fragrant little droplets of lemony goodness waft through the air.

Does it help? I was raised to believe that it does.

I will get back to you on this.