Trying to sell your house after 26 years is one hell of a job. I have been trying to get rid of stuff for years. I thought I was pretty savvy when I told my kids I didn’t plan on keeping their bedrooms as a shrine, so they should take it all. Well that really worked. No one took a thing. I had various methods of getting rid of stuff. For my middle son, who lives not too far away, I would leave bags of old trophies and the like on his doorstep. Sort of a Mom version of ringing the doorbell and running away.
For the older son with the fancy taste, I let my daughter put his stuff on ebay. And the rest–well 37 trips to Goodwill later, and intimate knowledge of the attendants family history I was done. Well sort of . They had to beg me not to bring anymore my little ponies or he-men figures.
The next step is sprucing it up. That means fixing up dart holes and bad temper punches in the playroom sheet rock. Who was that ass kid that did that? Then peeling Grateful Dead stickers off white door. The list goes on. None of it pleasant.
Perhaps the biggest trick of all is trying to act like you don’t have any animals in your house. I leave out the hermit crab that should have died two years ago that my daughter bought. This is the same crab I have been known to go out in my pajamas in search of salt water .No pet is left behind in this house . No one apparently wants the slightest hint that a dog has ever scooted across the wood floor or licked the woodwork. Let alone some of the other dastradly deeds that dogs do. Right?
So when potential buyers come its like a Chinese firedrill to throw the dog equipment (which is massive) in the garage and haul them off in the car. My daughter Mallory and I tried the dog park first but her Basset Hound, Winston, was scared of the other dogs and sat terrified for half an hour. We decided driving around with them was a better plan. Charlie, the rescue dog, was the easiest. Charlie has a cool old school vibe and was more than happy to listen to Marvin Gaye and Junior Walker and eat chicken finger at Cains. My daughters dogs, Winston and Louie, were a little more difficult. Especially since they like to cling terrified to your neck, making it virtually impossible to turn the steering wheel. Winston, who weighs about sixty pounds likes to dig his claws in your legs and beat his ten pound brother out of the choice spot on your lap. You look like you were a Pamplona survivors after this little adventure. A trip to the ER is always a possibility.
You can stand anything for half an hour, right? But then you have people that come late and linger and there you are driving in cars with dogs.