This morning, we were to meet with the realtor whom had been assigned to us and our home through the relocation company. We were to have met with her a few weeks ago but then the basement flooded so we postponed. We got up before 7 this morning to toss the house into some semblance of post-Christmas order. At 940-ish AM, I announced I was jumping in the shower and apparently left Andrea to slave away. Just before 10 AM, Andrea heralded the arrival of the realtor. I shrieked, “REALLY?!” and ran around upstairs, clamoring for clothing while assuming that Andrea was letting the realtor in. When I heard pounding on the front door, I realized that was an incorrect assumption.
I hastily looked at my calendar and it was then that I realized that I got my times mixed up. I’d been operating under the assumption the realtor was due at 1030 AM, when, clearly, she was arriving at 10 AM.
I flung the door open, hair wet and uncombed and shook the woman’s hand. We stood awkwardly where I wondered where the hell Andrea was before coming to my senses and saying we should find Andrea. I wandered into our family room and there Andrea was, on the deck, quite literally shoveling shit because our dogs are lazy, disgusting beings who drop deuces on the deck when the snow is inconvenient to them. My eyes bulged and I jerked my head towards the realtor, signaling Andrea to come in. Apparently, I made a frantic hand motion as well, but I have no memory of that.
Introductions were made and the realtor announced she’d take photos for the purpose of coming up with a listing price. I excused myself to comb my hair. Andrea and Bogart gave the realtor the tour.
We reconvened at our dining room table. Bogart jumped onto the table and gave the realtor a careful once over. Thankfully, she’s a pet person, having 2 dogs and 3 cats like we do. I slid the cat towards me as the realtor went through her PowerPoint deck. Bogart thought the sliding was great fun and decided to bite my hand. Andrea gave me the side eye while I removed my hand from the cat’s mouth and pulled my arm away just before he was about to kick me with his back legs. The realtor, blessedly, gave no indication that she noticed, and I telepathically communicated to Bogart that he was an asshole.
Basically, the realtor, let’s call her Maureen because that’s her name, says if we do what she tells us, we’ll be fine. I believe her. She’ll be returning to our home in approximately 2 weeks with a professional stager. I’m guessing that we’ll be told to remove our personalized weird stuff and maybe all signs that a same sex couple owns this joint. We have a lot of personalized weird stuff. I’m thinking of my bat skeleton and my tarot cards. We have a lot of stuff in general. Stuff that will need to be pulled out of here.
“I don’t know where you’ll put it…” Maureen says. After she leaves, we call a self-storage place in town. The good news is that as part of our relo, the movers will pick up anything we’ve stored at a stored unit. Granted, we don’t have to haul everything out of here that Maureen and the stager suggests. Certain things, like Wrigley’s couch that the old man sleeps on, will stay regardless. I think this place will sell anyway. It’s not like his little couch is an Archie Bunker chair.
The good news is that, true to ServPro's tagline “Like it never happened”, our basement is dry. None of our appliances were ruined and our insurance policy paid $2,500 towards the cleanup. This did leave us on the hook for $2,000. Happy holidays to us!
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