explored the possibilities . . . art, life, love . . . in three words
Saturday, November 14, 2009
. . .vented, a bit
I know someday I will look back on the experience and find it funny; I am usually able to do that, even at my own expense. But right now, I'm just pissed.
I have been working a lot, getting another bunch of small paintings ready to post on my etsy site, as well as making some bigger pieces for Walter the Art Guy. I have not had a lot of time to clean the house, not that it's particularly dirty, maybe just needs dusting and vacuuming. My real estate agent wanted to schedule an open house for this weekend, but I told her Thursday morning that I didn't think I would have time to clean the house properly, so we decided to cancel it. Thursday evening, while I'm down in the studio, paint and junk splattered all over me and the space, and having just gotten my pants caught in the sander and torn a big chunk out of them, at 5:05 p.m., Central Booking calls and tells me that there is a real estate agent who wants to show my house at 5:15. A master of the obvious, I say, "But that's in ten minutes." The lady on the phone tells me that it's okay that my house isn't clean enough, they won't look at that, they only want to look at the structure. So I say okay, straighten up as well as I can in five minutes, and head out the front door to my neighbor's house, just as some jerk in a silver Lexus drives up the street and turns into my driveway.
It's over in 15 minutes. My neighbor takes off for ballet class with her daughter, and I take off back home, only to find myself locked out of my house. Usually when I have a showing, I go somewhere in my car, and I have the garage door opener to let me in, but this time I just forgot. I circled the house, all the doors are locked, all the window are locked (which is really a good thing, I guess, since I live alone) and I ended up sitting on the front steps wondering what to do. Fortunately, I had my purse and my cell phone, so I called my realtor, who lives next door, and she came and opened the door for me with the key in the lock box. There was no sign that anyone had been in the house, except all the lights were on. The jerk didn't leave a card or anything.
So Friday morning I read that I had received a comment back from this jerk realtor about my house. Basically he said that it was dirty; that I needed to hire a house cleaning crew. I cannot tell you how pissed off that makes me. This house is not dirty. I know. I have been in dirty houses, and this isn't it. It's not messy, either. No one ever goes into about half the rooms in the house, so how in the hell can they be dirty? Dusty, maybe, not dirty. Was there a big of blush in the sink? Yeah, a tiny bit. But there was no soap scum, no tiny hairs. Did I have my art pieces, envelopes, tape, bubblewrap, etc. on the counter? Yes, I did. Was it neatly piled up? Yes, it was. Was it dirty? No, it was not. In fact, I can't even think what made him write such a comment. The dust on the blinds in the kitchen? The paint flecks in the sink? What the hell, a cleaning crew for that?
I know I need to just let these comments go. . . water off a duck's back. I know this intellectually, but I'm insulted that someone thinks my house is dirty. Some stranger in a dirty silver Lexus has come into my house and found it lacking. . . ergo, found me lacking. Oh, yeah, he also says that the house in its current condition is overpriced by thousands of dollars. Because he thinks it's dirty? Maybe it is, but not for the reason he stated in his comment.
Okay, it's starting to be slightly humorous. I'm still not laughing, but I can see that I'm being ridiculous here. Maybe it will be belly-laughing hilarious after I sell the house.