I've spent the past few days cleaning the house from top to bottom--literally, since it's a two-story building. My realtor thought Sunday might be good for an Open House. I was more or less fine with the idea until I started looking around the place. Now don't get me wrong: I keep the house fairly tidy. What I don't normally do is sweep the eaves of cobwebs, wash the wrought iron rails on both decks, or sweep out the two-car garage. So, besides the inside, I had to tackle the outside. To say I've had enough is putting it mildly.
Just as the realtor was pulling into the drive, with a car behind her, I was finishing the last little bit of work. I loaded the boys in the car and headed down the mountain, sweat still running down my temples. Oh, I didn't mention it's been abnormally hot these past few days? I didn't point out that the humidity has been acclimating me for my next trek across Jupiter?
Of the people who came for the viewing--whilst the boys and I had to find somewhere to go for two hours--one couple seemed very interested. He's retired State Police, she's with the DA's office. (Guess it will definitely be full disclosure on my part then.) The only hitch? They're having trouble selling their own place. Huh. Really? Get in line.
Open House over, I'm home, too hot, dogs are laying on the floor panting from the heat, and the excitement. Cleaning, like weeding, is hopelessly ungratifying and only lasts for a moment, so I'm going now to have a tall, cold glass of Lambrusco, kick my feet up, and appreciate the momentary sparkle of a super clean house.
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