The Yoys: For Sale

Our home went up for sale last Friday.  I teared up as the man hammered the white post into our front yard.  We've had like 8 million showings this week.  Well, not actually 8 million, but it feels like it.

For each showing, I go through a multiple hour process of transforming my lived in home into a soulless hotel.  And I'm not talking about the Bates Motel.  I'm talking about something you want to actually stay in.

The process involves cleaning, removing everything from the counter tops, replacing all used towels with fancy, unused towels, replacing used pillows with pillows I bought strictly for house showings, and turning the end of my toilet paper into beautiful bouquets.  Yes, I'm losing my sh*t.

My realtor sent out his stager.  She provided me with a lengthy list of things I MUST do to sell this place.  She told me I had to pick up the dog poop in the back yard.  I growled at Poodle Yoy, but agreed that the minefield had to go.

She told me I had to remove my giant rug(s) from under the dining room table as they were too patterny (is that even a thing?).  And yes there are two rugs, stacked on top of each other, due to some redecorating and lack of a basement to hoard things in.  I moved my mammoth dining room table with the help of those slider pads only to discover the rugs, rolled up, weighed more than I was able to lift.  This was not a solo project.  So they stayed.

And then there are the closets.  I ran out of steam after I worked on mine and the Yoysers.  Open the other closet doors at your own risk.  While wearing a hard hat.  That's the sign I wanted to hang on the doors.

We have a family coming back for a fourth look on Sunday.  I'm hoping this nightmare ends soon and that we can go back to being the disgusting pigs we really are.



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