My house is for sale. The open house is today. Yes, random, curious strangers will be traipsing through my apartment today. Oh, happy day.
Having an open house is sort of like going on a first date. You clean everything up as well as you can. You shave your legs and pits, exfoliate, moisturize, try outfits on, and worry about your figure flaws. All the while, you’re aware that it may be for nothing more stimulating than a weak margarita and an hour of stilted conversation.
Likewise, while I have been working on my skin care regimen, I have been cleaning and polishing, dusting and puttering to make my apartment as nice-looking as I can.
Some may ask why. After all, I rent. I gain nothing from the sale of this house.
Part of it is vanity. I mean, I live in a basement suite, but that doesn’t mean I’m subhuman. The suite itself is fairly shabby, but I am not. Or, rather, I don’t want people to think I am.
I want potential buyers to see the place and think not, “Hey, I could be a slum lord!”, but rather, “Hey, interesting and intelligent people live here. I’d like to buy this house.”
Also, I have an ulterior motive. Our upstairs neighbour mentioned that the relator had expressed interest in E and me as tenants for one of her houses. I’d like the realtor to see that we are quirky yet responsible, people who treat their living space as a home. Everything would be a lot easier if we didn’t have to go on the apartment-hunting circuit.
So, yeah. Off to put lemon oil on my sideboard now.