The Psychology of a House Showing

Here I sit, deflated, like a child’s discarded balloon animal 3 days after the birthday party.  Just hours ago I was revved up on adrenaline moving a mile a minute mopping and dusting while contemplating what I would do with the dwindling profit from the potential sale of our home.   A family trip to Europe, sessions with the chiropractor to finally get my back in good health; I might even splurge on that new crown for my molar.  But alas, it is just another showing with no offer.  This one was particularly brutal as the time I spent preparing for the showing (aka performance/presentation!) was about 20 times longer than the time the clients actually spent in my home (a mere 15 minutes).    Actually – forget the earlier animal balloon analogy – picture a rotund lavender balloon floating happily higher and higher in the air and then some shithead with a blowdart gun attacks me and with a sudden POP, I flutter back down to the earth, a small heap of rubber garbage.  Yes, that is a much better description of how I feel right now.

I have bought and sold my share of living spaces during my nearly (choke) 20 years of marriage.  Two condos in Boston, a house in the Massachusetts suburbs, a ski house in Deer Valley, another condo in Old Town Park City, and finally our dream home in the vast meadows of lower PC.  As it turns out, our dream peaked early, but our wallets couldn’t sustain the long-term effects of the economic downturn.  It also turns out that dream homes require a good deal of maintenance and attention, not to mention ongoing support funds.  In real estate, as we all know, timing is everything and for 15 years our timing was damn good, the last five – not so much.  Anyway – this latest real estate endeavor has brought with it a rather long DOM (days on market) due to the recession and the mammoth size of our home – just around 2 years (give or take a few months during the off season).

While I am usually not a type A personality, the disorder must lay dormant in my system until we put our house on the market, and then it liberates itself with a vengeance. There have been a few instances where all the stars align and I have a “showing” on the actual day that the cleaning lady has been to my house.  This only happens twice a month, so I know statistics are not on my side, but I always hope for the best.  Most of the time, I AM the cleaning lady and I have to perform at record speed.  My work ethic and moral code kick in and I believe if I expect someone to pay top dollar for my home, my house should look spectacular.  Perfect.  Unlived in.  The ultimate lifestyle oxymoron – how do you make a house where you live every day, appear as if you don’t live there?  Unless you are Samantha from Bewitched, trying to maintain the “unlived in” look creates a fair amount of insanity.  Some days, I truly feel like committing myself to the asylum – I imagine that it is quite clean there and people could drop in for an impromptu showing at almost any time.  My therapist (a long time ago when I could afford therapy) told me to throw some dirty clothes on the floor before my next house showing – “just do it!” she yelled enthusiastically.  I couldn’t do it.  I failed.  What if they loved everything about my house and they didn’t buy it because they thought I was a slob?  How could I live with myself?

The natural enemies of the house showing are: kids, dogs, and the Everything Bagel.  Regardless of my constant nagging, the kids leave their stuff (affectionately called “shit” more often than not) everywhere.   Homework, clothes, pencils, glasses, food wrappers, water bottles, Wii remotes, electronic devices and their cords.  After 4 pm, it looks like the teenage sprawl has taken over my family room.  They enter the mudroom and an endless mound of goods drop from them as they make their way into our habitat – shoes, coats, backpacks, hats.  Once they hit the kitchen, their appetite -which as been unnaturally sequestered during the school day - comes completely unleashed while they open cupboards and fridges in search of the quickest high carb treat they can shove in their mouth.  In minutes, the floors and counters that were spotless and shiny are cluttered with crumbs and debris. 

The dog: Four happy dog feet are the equivalent of a nuclear bomb going off on your floors.  The dog comes in from her morning constitutional (which I agree is a moment worth celebrating no matter your species) and she can literally deposit hundreds of footprints within seconds while displaying her enthusiasm in seeing me as well as her jubilation over her recent evacuation. 

And then, there is the Everything Bagel – which at this moment, no longer has a place in my domicile.  Since I have virtually no control over my other two enemies, I can at least ban the seeded bagel beast from my kitchen.  I remove the bagel as carefully as I can from the packaging, seeds and spices fly everywhere.  I deftly hoist the bagel into the toaster, more seeds and the occasional flake of dried garlic spew forth.  After applying cream cheese to the carb-laden villain, I can’t even watch the disaster that ensues as my kids try to consume the bagel.  Seeds go from mouth to counter in slow motion, then onto the floor, where the dog tromps over with her wet feet to eat the crumbs.  The whole scenario sends me into an unrecoverable fit.

The phone rings.  I see that it is my realtor and my heart stops.  I know that whatever I had planned for the next four hours is about to get nixed.  I feign cheeriness as I agree to a showing later that day.  Everything gets put on hold as I attempt to erase the existence of my family and pet from our home.  I race home and de-clutter, make beds, clean bathrooms, vacuum, dust, mop and light a candle so it smells like I’ve been casually baking a spice cake instead of cleaning toilets.   I clear my shower of product – from the usual 12 shampoos and conditioners (see earlier blog) down to a more reasonable 2. I play subtle spa-type music in each room to evoke a feeling of peace and calm for the potential buyer (as opposed to the frenzy that preceded his arrival).  I arrange flowers, and get rid of personal photos.  Everything is perfectly staged for success.  I, on the other hand, am a wreck.  During the 4-6 hour cleaning process (depending on the level of depravity that has taken place in my house) my mind constantly oscillates, “This is it, this is the one.  I’m positive we are going to sell the house.  I’m going to research flights to Italy and potential rentals tonight…… and then this is such a waste of my time, we are never going to sell this house, why am I working so hard.”  And on it goes….

I hastily depart my residence with my dog and her four assault weapons in tow, I’m usually sweating, the floors still wet behind me.  (During a showing last year, I left her in the yard and she was playing with a potential buyer’s offspring when she inadvertently ripped the little girl’s skirt off by mistake, so now the dog has to go.  Needless to say, no offer on that showing either).  The dog and I lumber around town in the car while I try to catch my breath and calm down. As I begin to again ponder the various scenarios that might result from all my labor, the realtor calls again, “They liked it, but….”   POP! There goes that damn blow dart gun again.