Saturday, August 7, 2010
Scrub Oak Redux
How fun to be back. I already lost my first new post. Hmmmm. I'll stay away from religion and social commentary - there are many more folks who can espouse on such in a much more articulate manner than I. Not that these topics aren't wonderful, intriguing, and important. But as the Middle Child inconsummate?... well, Issues just reek of conflict. I really like moving towards Tolerance and Balance in the wisdom of my rather considerable years. After all, that's where I started this journey.
I think we've just made up our minds to keep our place and not sell after all. It's not a great time to sell, for one thing. But that isn't the deciding factor. More importantly, every time someone wanted to look at my home I noticed that I really, really did not want them to come. It wasn't just a matter of cleaning the place up, although holy tamoly, that has been one wretched voice mail to come home to of an evening. "Suzan? This is Barbara, your realtor. Tomorrow morning we have someone coming over to view your home. Hope this isn't too late to call." Ehwewwww! Not at all Barbara, not at all. Just let me clean up that bird the cat vomited on the upstairs landing.
So, I'm back to calling my home, my home. It's important to me. I was feeling very unsettled all in all. Jerry and I have been looking at the finances when he retires and I think we are fine (as fine as any work a day working folk, at any rate - small pensions, a bit of savings, mortgage up the wazoo). You know what has worried me the most about this house selling thing? It has been a worry about whether anyone could possibly like - or rather - fall in love, with my home. Not like I love it. And there is so much wrong with it by today's standards. Clawfoot bath in the master bath - no marble shower at all. In fact, no marble in the entire house. Rickety old gas stove (which needs the oven cleaned quite badly). Smallish closets throughout. Landscaped with love, not money. "Really ugly chicken coop" (could read the realtor's description). And, it's mine.