Once I put my house on the market, it had to be properly staged for viewing. I was told, nicely but firmly, that prospective buyers need to see a house not as you live in it, but as they might want to live in it. This means removing most of the things that make this house my home. Avendui, my agent, said there were too many tschotches on the cocktail tables in the living room, too many gadgets on the kitchen counters, too much fuss in my den, far too many cookbooks, sweaters on the shelf in the closet, shoes. So I went to work putting things away. The kitchen got the most extensive treatment. Gone are the coffee maker and blender from the counter in the kitchen; gone the container of wooden spoons, the whisks, the pancake turners, the spatula. Gone are the dish towels from the handle of the oven door. Gone from the side of the refrigerator are the magnets that once held cards for the appliance repair man, the handy man and the painter, gone the number for the Salvation Army and the hours of operation for the library in Roland Park, gone the photograph of Rhea and her new (now not so new) grandson and the print of Bert and me at a long-ago party. Banished from the top of the cabinets are the extra rolls of paper towels, the big glass bowl I use occasionally for flowers, the toaster/oven, the Mexican casseroles, the parchment paper for lining cookie sheets. I drew the line at the canisters of sugar and flour and tea, and the tea kettle on the stove. But the rest of the house has suffered as well. Gone from the cocktail table in the living room are the little boxes I’ve collected from all over the world, packed away in unprinted newspaper, not to live again until they reemerge in my new apartment. Gone are the animals on the chest, the framed photographs (especially those; too personal, too distracting) of my family, and the good luck Eye of Turkey in water in the glass vial that Susie somehow, miraculously, got to me without its breaking. Gone are the candlesticks from the dining room credenza, the Kleenex box from the top of the toilet tank in the guest bathroom, the piles of papers on my TV cabinet in the den, the stapler, paper weights, the note pads, the Scotch tape dispenser, the paper clip box and stamp holder from my desk, the books from the table next to my favorite chair, the throw slung over its arm to use when I’m cold. Gone are the sweaters from the shelf in my closet, packed carefully away in hard-to-see-through plastic boxes that “will read as one.” The shoes are now lined up perfectly, scrunched together like peas in a pod. And in the basement, gone are the many framed photographs of friends and family that lined the bookshelves, the photograph albums of my many trips, the little dragon cigarette lighter, the plastic wind-up toy of the monk beating on his drum, the colorful control board from a failed air conditioner from my (once) house at the beach, my photograph of Fred when he was very sick, looking out forlornly from his hospital bed. Gone from the house, in so far as possible, is my personality.
Living in this notable lack of chaos is not easy. Some things just have to come out of hiding for daily use (the dishtowels and the sponge and soap in the kitchen) and when I’m warned that a prospective buyer wants to see the house, go back in again. All the cosmetics I use on a daily basis – pills, lotions, toothpaste, hair gel, deodorant, shaving cream – have been relegated to the space under the sink where, for ease of access, they now reside in a small carton, begged from Eddie’s and which once contained cans of turkey gravy. I leave the carton out until I’m told someone wants to see the house. Then the turkey gravy carton goes back under the sink. Sometimes I forget where I put things or find them in odd locations. Where’s the spoon holder? What’s this dishtowel doing with the frying pans? Why are the wooden spoons in the refrigerator?
Presumably, this rigid military order will help to sell the house. I sure hope so. I’m not used to living in such serene surroundings. It’s like eating meals without any salt and pepper.
Stay tuned.
No comments:
Post a Comment