If you’ve been keeping up with our moving saga, a far second behind Jack Burditt’s endless road trips in his home away from home RV, we still have a lot of ground to cover. First came the start of escrow where apparently even those with faultless credit fear to tread, then came the faultless, expert packing with Eddie, and now, now, we have to deal with the inevitable OPEN HOUSE.
We chose our dream house based on the three trips we made on that fateful Sunday’s open house. But the previous owners, those that had lovingly cared for their house for thirty-four years, were not around.
They didn’t hear our ideas regarding tearing down this and adding that. Would it have been hard for them to see their lovely dining room stripped of its floral wallpaper to add chair rails and Ralph Lauren Van Gogh harvest yellow paint? Removing the new carpet to bare the hardwood floors? Blasphemy!
Now it’s our turn to cringe. Pat Riner is ready to set up shop in my newly remodeled kitchen. What if a prospective buyer wants to tear out our built-in granite kitchen nook to add more cabinet space? In a peachy-pink hushed tone? Or minted apple green?
How will we feel if they want to rip out the rosebushes for geraniums? Cut back the potato vines and red apple? I won’t be able to stand it if they decide the Samantha tree (an ash she planted with dad two short years ago) breaks up the front yard too much.
I need a HH (Help me I’m selling my House) meeting!
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Give me twelve steps that don’t just involve milk chocolate, three-olived martinis and too many high heart-rated rowing classes! There’s got to be other ways to stave of the fear-of-new-homeowners-anxiety!
It was tough enough a few short years ago to have renters in our first love nest.
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We drove by the house from time to time only to be rewarded with a partial view of blanketed windows and black widow webs crisscrossing the front path. Rescued from some kind of Jamie Lee Curtis Halloween free-for-all movie, we were lucky to finally sell the house to John. You remember John, out friend that buys all of our old cars and houses, fixes them up and sells them for a profit.
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He’s not ready to buy another house just yet, we already tried that.
So please to the home-buying Gods: Guard our house from loud-speaking prospective buyers. And silently pray with me…don’t let me drive by our former home on some fateful hot Santa Clarita afternoon and not see a new little one having a pretend tea party in the shade of a full-grown Samantha tree.
I didn’t know you were moving! Where to?
That article was written in 11/1999 – the date should be in the title. From my old Eve of Destruction columns in The Signal. Not moving, you’re stuck with me neighbor!