I've never owned anything before. Nothing of value, anyway. That means, I've never really had to work at selling anything. Of my own, that is.
We asked a realtor to come look at our city row home, knowing that in 4 months or so we'll be moving into our new, grown-up house (!). He did his best to choke out something about "potential", grabbed his briefcase and promptly sent a professional over to coach us along.
I came home from work, typically late, and found Scott under an overhead light, pouring over a many page document. He looked concerned. I came closer.
On dainty letterhead, a cutesy pink logo read "Just Stage It!" and in dumb, horsey font read a list. And more lists. Apparently this pro went through our house, room by room, and kindly shredded all of our possessions. Basically, she asked us to remove nearly everything of character and put in its place "show" items from Ikea and various other strip mall stores. I guess that is what sells houses, I'm told.
The best part? The race was on. The realtor impressed upon us the urgency of putting our house on the market NOW, before the holidays. [Cue: "The Heat is On" by Glen Frey, one of the worst songs ever. Ever.]
Both of us working, this was another full-time job. Scott shouldered nearly all of it. He's been covered in paint since Oct 1.
Weekends have been non-existant. Countless trips to Goodwill and the dump. It seemed to only get worse. Moving heaps of crap from one side of our skinny row home, to the other, only to explode into something else. It kept budding-- one job would sprout other jobs. Like the soap-sud episode on the Brady Bunch. Uncontrollable.
One Saturday halfway through the process, I looked at Scott who'd had a full sweat going for 4 straight hours. I checked the clock and swallowed hard. How do I tell him that in 1 hour, he had to put on a tux and go to a Walters Museum gala? He hadn't smiled much all day. And I felt pretty certain his tux was probably buried way back in our POD unit.
Waiting until the last possible minute, I reminded him, he dutifully showered and off we went. We bee-lined for the sculpture gallery where cocktails were being served, everyone standing around looking shiny and sparkly. Scott grabbed a stiff drink, adjusted his bowtie and sat down in the middle of it all. Bless his heart,we actually had a good time, even though both of us could feel our pulses in the bottoms of our feet.
We did it. The house was clutter-free. And TV-free and drawer-free.
Just Stage it! Who needs clothes for work? Not when you're staging! When you're out of the shower, throw out your towel-- you're a stager! We've become totally punchy.
And after all this, we now live in a bizarro movie set. Nothing on the counter tops except a basket of fake fruit. Fake flowers. So, whenever we need sharp knives, we have to go into our unlit cabinets and "feel around" for what we need. Smart. Right now the contents of one particular cabinet are: Tall bottle of olive oil, spatula, lighterfluid, one potato and garlic bulb.
The best part is now. Living the staging life. Whenever we leave our (almost useless) home, I have to recreate the "set". Meaning, every morning I have to re-create Act II, scene ix: Dinner Time. Placemats, cutlery, china, drinking glasses. For two. Because we live in Mayberry! All spic and span, with the cheezy botannical prints in the background and my fake flowers.
Its unnatural. Maybe I will change my name-- really embrace the whole thing. Like, when I come home, I have to put on a big wig and frilly apron. Sensible, but feminine, shoes. And pad about my fake kitchen, producing large fake turkies and pies.
We asked a realtor to come look at our city row home, knowing that in 4 months or so we'll be moving into our new, grown-up house (!). He did his best to choke out something about "potential", grabbed his briefcase and promptly sent a professional over to coach us along.
I came home from work, typically late, and found Scott under an overhead light, pouring over a many page document. He looked concerned. I came closer.
On dainty letterhead, a cutesy pink logo read "Just Stage It!" and in dumb, horsey font read a list. And more lists. Apparently this pro went through our house, room by room, and kindly shredded all of our possessions. Basically, she asked us to remove nearly everything of character and put in its place "show" items from Ikea and various other strip mall stores. I guess that is what sells houses, I'm told.
The best part? The race was on. The realtor impressed upon us the urgency of putting our house on the market NOW, before the holidays. [Cue: "The Heat is On" by Glen Frey, one of the worst songs ever. Ever.]
Both of us working, this was another full-time job. Scott shouldered nearly all of it. He's been covered in paint since Oct 1.
Weekends have been non-existant. Countless trips to Goodwill and the dump. It seemed to only get worse. Moving heaps of crap from one side of our skinny row home, to the other, only to explode into something else. It kept budding-- one job would sprout other jobs. Like the soap-sud episode on the Brady Bunch. Uncontrollable.
One Saturday halfway through the process, I looked at Scott who'd had a full sweat going for 4 straight hours. I checked the clock and swallowed hard. How do I tell him that in 1 hour, he had to put on a tux and go to a Walters Museum gala? He hadn't smiled much all day. And I felt pretty certain his tux was probably buried way back in our POD unit.
Waiting until the last possible minute, I reminded him, he dutifully showered and off we went. We bee-lined for the sculpture gallery where cocktails were being served, everyone standing around looking shiny and sparkly. Scott grabbed a stiff drink, adjusted his bowtie and sat down in the middle of it all. Bless his heart,we actually had a good time, even though both of us could feel our pulses in the bottoms of our feet.
We did it. The house was clutter-free. And TV-free and drawer-free.
Just Stage it! Who needs clothes for work? Not when you're staging! When you're out of the shower, throw out your towel-- you're a stager! We've become totally punchy.
And after all this, we now live in a bizarro movie set. Nothing on the counter tops except a basket of fake fruit. Fake flowers. So, whenever we need sharp knives, we have to go into our unlit cabinets and "feel around" for what we need. Smart. Right now the contents of one particular cabinet are: Tall bottle of olive oil, spatula, lighterfluid, one potato and garlic bulb.
The best part is now. Living the staging life. Whenever we leave our (almost useless) home, I have to recreate the "set". Meaning, every morning I have to re-create Act II, scene ix: Dinner Time. Placemats, cutlery, china, drinking glasses. For two. Because we live in Mayberry! All spic and span, with the cheezy botannical prints in the background and my fake flowers.
Its unnatural. Maybe I will change my name-- really embrace the whole thing. Like, when I come home, I have to put on a big wig and frilly apron. Sensible, but feminine, shoes. And pad about my fake kitchen, producing large fake turkies and pies.
