So, earlier today I got a call that a realtor would like to show the place. “When?” “Now; I’m outside.” So I got five minutes, put the place in order real quick, and dashed out for a few minutes so they could look around. I didn’t have time to vacuum, and since I’d done a few loads of laundry yesterday, there were various lint leavings throughout the top floor. Crap.
But it gets better. Realtor just showed up without calling ahead and opened the front door. “Oh, did I call ahead?” “No, you didn’t, but that’s fine,” I say, try to muster my best “what the heck?” smile. I’m in my pajamas, unshowered, with a beer in hand. I’m reading Greenspan and listening to jazz. I need a shave. I probably smell. In a word: classic.
The lady seemed to love the place (she was extremely fond of my speakers), the guy was a bit less excited, and seemed concerned about the lack of storage for his bicycles, though we chatted about the possibilities of using the porch or walk-in closet. He loved how much space there was up in the attic.
So two showings I didn’t expect, after zero the previous weekend, 3 three the weekend before, and five the weekend before that. I’d rather unexpected showings than none, but I’m really looking forward to not living in fear of the damn things anymore. And being able to make a mess, if only for a little while.