So I’ve talked to a few realtors, and today I had the great big Measure Things And Sit Down And Talk About It meeting with the person who I’ll probably have list the house next year. I like him. I get a friendly, honest, capable vibe off of him. And really, how many realtors can you say that about? (Now twenty people will be enraged in the comments. “I’m a realtor! My father is a realtor! We are good people!”)
Also: Vibe? Is that how I’m deciding these things? Well, I examined his aura and deemed him appropriate. That’s true, if by aura I actually mean the various awards he’s won. Bottom line, he seems pretty good at this whole house-selling thing, and Lord knows I’m not. (“Would you like to buy my house? It has walls! Also floors! You should give me many dollars!”)
It was very interesting for me to see what items he deemed as absolute must-address items, and what things I’d been worried about that didn’t bother him at all. For example: There has never been sorrier shrubbery than that which currently leans into the front of my house, both spindly and overgrown all at once. It’s pitiful. Does this realtor care? No! “Just trim them back a little,” he said. Okay. Great! On the other hand, he has issues with my dryer vent hose. Which is hiding in the corner of the basement. Hiding with malice and evil intent, apparently. That’s why he makes the big bucks; I see a dryer vent hose, he sees Trouble.
Also, we started out at the kitchen table, and I fetched a glass of water for the realtor because I am hospitable like that, and then later on, in the basement, I was informed that that thing that I don’t know what it is, which hangs from the ceiling, houses a water filter. A water filter that should be changed on a regular basis.
“Really? That’s funny. I’ve lived here for nearly seven years and I’ve NEVER changed it! I didn’t even know it was there!” He gaped at me. “And, um, that was tap water I gave you earlier. Was it delicious?” He looked a little green.
I drink that water all the time. But, um, I guess I’ll put changing the filter on the To Do list.
[Who likes lists? Otto likes lists! Otto will be here soon, and he can make lists to his heart’s content. And then—in addition to spending the holidays together, and visiting family—we can do those critically important pre-marriage activities, like going for premarital counseling with my pastor, and painting together. Because if you can’t get through painting together? You shouldn’t get married. It was my critical error, marrying my ex before we’d engaged in any home repair together. Lesson learned.]
My contractor stopped by with my shower door, too. I’d picked it out yesterday along with 180 pounds of tile (yes, really) for the bathroom floor, but after putting said 180 pounds of tile into my car I decided that I would let him go pick up the shower door for me. Just as well, because it comes in a box the size of Delaware. Now all of those supplies are sitting in my mudroom, because I am classy like that.
In other—completely unrelated—news, I read an excellent post a few days ago about gender bias and how bad and wrong and damaging it is, and I remember nodding along and thinking, “Yes, wow, good points.”
Then I promptly spent most of today thinking all of the “harmful,” biased thoughts the post in question railed against.
I have no excuse, save for these two illustrations of why I might find myself, at the end of the day, thinking that, Yes, Virginia, boys and girls really ARE different:
I am at the grocery store, in a hurry, and I zip into the express lane and then start counting the items in my cart to make sure I’m not over. (It was a 12 or under lane, and it turned out I had 13 items. I hate me. Do not tell.) After my tally, I looked up to see the woman ahead of me in line buying a single roll of toilet paper, and a bag of fat-free pretzels.
I think to myself: Well, she probably needed toilet paper, and didn’t want to buy JUST THAT, so she grabbed a bag of pretzels. Okay.
Then I glance behind me and see that the customer following me is a man pushing a cart that contains only a quart of milk and a case of beer.
I think to myself: I bet he doesn’t have any food in his fridge besides ketchup.
It was raining when the kids got home from school today, and they came inside, shucked coats and shoes and backpacks, and then greeted me. Chickadee said, “My pants are all wet.”
She meant she’d gotten wet in the rain, of course.
I responded, “Ewww, you really shouldn’t wet your pants, you know.” And then I giggled a little. Just in case it wasn’t clear that I was being a bratty 10-year-old.
Chickadee screeched, “THAT’S NOT FUNNY!” and stomped upstairs. STOMPED. Because of my terrible transgression.
Monkey—having observed all of this—jumped in front of me and said, “My pants are all wet, too!”
I responded, “You too?? Sheesh, stop wetting your pants.”
Monkey screeched, “AHAHAHAHAHA I PEED MY PANTS! PSSSSSSS! PSSSSSSS!” and laughed and laughed while dancing around my legs, pretending to pee on me.
I dunno. Maybe boys and girls are exactly the same. This could all just be a warp in MY brain. From the tap water.