What Do I Hear?

Well, I did it. My Realtor, Jan, came by yesterday with a colleague of hers, and we signed the papers to put the house on the market. I have yet to get the screens replaced or the carpets cleaned or the front door repainted, but as those are the only things holding me back, I decided to get the ball rolling, which would be a motivator for getting the rest of the job done.

The realty people showed up about 2 o'clock, and Patty raced upstairs to hide, as usual. I showed them around the house, first the main floor, then upstairs. After, we went down to the garage to show them the laundry and built-in shelving. Then we went upstairs to the dining room table to lay out the paperwork. Lots of paperwork.

I haven't signed and initialed so much since I was laid off by Nielsen at the Hollywood Reporter. But I read through all of it, with Jan explaining each document and what it dealt with (which really helped). Lots of it was disclaimers and agreements that I would have had to read through three times before feeling comfortable enough to sign them if I was doing this on my own. Now I understand what Mom meant when she said Realtors "earn every penny." I would not want to go through this process on my own.

So next week a woman is coming out to measure the place, and the screen guy will be replacing the screens. Once the carpet guy is scheduled,  Jan's photographer is going to shoot the place. After that, we schedule the open house and go from there. Sale times are running 60 to 90 days, but there's not much inventory right now, so the chance of getting a bidding war going is a possibility; about a third of the comps Jan showed me were selling above asking price.

So the ladies left around 4 o'clock and I was feeling like another underpinning of my reality had been knocked clear. Soon I'll be standing on one foot, balancing, waiting for someone to shout, "Jenga!" I realized that I hadn't gotten around to lunch, so I had lunner and sat down to continue my viewing of "Fringe" on Netflix.

The sun had been down for a few hours when I realized that I had not seen Patty since the Realtors were here. I had been out on the patio a couple times after, and Patty usually runs from wherever she is and joins me outside, but she hadn't. So I checked all the cabinets and cupboards, all the places she likes to hide. No Patty. I went down into the garage, called to her, looked in the crannies, but nothing. On a hunch, I wedged the door to the garage open and in about three minutes, you betcha, here comes Patty yowling and bouncing up the stairs.

I was reflecting on the fact that her previous disappearance into the garage occurred the day they finished the remodel on the house. Now she dashes down there when I sign the papers putting the house on the market. At least this time it only took me three hours instead of three days to locate her. But still, I can't help thinking she knows exactly what's going on, and this is her way of making comment of the progress towards impending changey differentness.

So I am opening myself to a new flow, a change. I don't know if it's opening like a budding flower or a festering pustule, but either one would be therapeutic at this point, and perhaps both would be appropriate. Because, now that I'm honed and decluttered, ready to slough off our home of eight years, only now do I start to realize the volume of crap I have yet to go through to finish the active portion of my mourning. If I'm lucky, I'll be wrapping it up just about the time I head out on my drive to La Crosse and my new world.

My ultimate goal: a white Christmas this year, in a new town and a new home.