Normally, these last two weeks in
October, at least until the day of Halloween, is a time when I get to take a
deep breath and relax before the insanity of the holiday season, which for me
starts on Halloween and ends January 2. Alas, not so this year.
I am not naturally organized. My
husband swears there is no such thing as an organization gene, but I disagree. I
put things down in random places, collect important papers in piles I mean to
sort through some day and place multiple craft supplies, writing utensils and
my computer out in the open within easy reach in case I get a yen to work with
any of them. I need at least one cache of disorganization somewhere in my house
to feel comfortable.
As of today, October 27, my house
has been on the market for 21 days. The problem with having your house for sale
is that it must stay in show-worthy condition. Open pockets of disorganization
are frowned upon by real estate agents. The sheer neatness is driving me crazy.
Every time someone looks at the
house, we are supposed to move the dog beds and carriers out of the house into
the garage in advance, on the theory that some people don’t like pets in the
house and if they see accoutrements relating to pets, they will decide not to
like the house. I’m thinking the big plastic bin of dog food in the kitchen
might be a dead give-away, regardless of the dog beds, but maybe not.
My daughter has the least
enviable job. When a showing is imminent, her job is to load all three dogs in
her car and drive around with them until the showing is over. It wouldn’t be such
a bad job except that our oldest dog, Daisy, tends to get car sick on twisty
backroads and my daughter loves driving on twisty backroads.
I try to remind myself of all the
the blessings to be thankful for while we go through this process—my husband
has a new job, we have a house to sell, my firm will work with me once we move
so I can continue to be employed by it, and we will buy a house in our new
location once this house sells. That helps, as does my constant reminder to
myself that I am selling a home, not a museum, so minor imperfections are okay.
Meanwhile, I’ll console myself for the state of uncommon organization in my
household with thoughts of the glorious chaos that will exist after we sell
this house and move into the next one. Three weeks into that process, I expect I’ll
look fondly back on this oasis of organization as a Golden Age.
