We fell in love with our house knowing it wasn’t perfect. A small, 2 bedroom, 1950’s bungalow, it has small rooms, small closets, and luridly colored bathrooms. It also has a a large yard and huge shade trees and is less than a mile to the beach. We bought the house because we found it charming in a mid-century modern kind of way and because we loved the shade trees.
When we moved in 15 years ago it seemed enormous, but recently we came to the shocking realization that our house is full. My “A-ha!” moment came when I decided against making a roast for dinner because the thought of emptying the oven, which we use to store oversized platters and mismatched bowls and Christmas fruitcakes, seemed too daunting. Soon after, my brother from Ocala wanted to visit and I told him he could not stay with us because the bed in the guestroom was buried beneath stuff that would not fit in the closets. We needed a bigger house.
Since we can not buy a new house until we sell the old one it seemed as though our first step was to put our house on the market. After much thought, we listed our home with a British realtor, feeling obscurely that British accents sell homes better than American accents. The paperwork was signed, the house was cleaned and, praying that no one would open the hall closet, which was stuffed so full it took two of us to close the door, we got ready for our first Open House.
First off, we annoyed the realtor by staying home for the Open House after he told us we should leave. We decided to stay on the advice of a realtor friend from Palm Springs who earnestly warned us not to leave the house unsupervised. “The attendees will open your dresser drawers,” he said darkly. “The realtor will drink your liquor.”
The first couple that arrived stepped through the door, looked around as though searching for mold and walked out without saying a word. “That’s a a bad omen,” I said to my partner. “You think? “he said.
The next couple was from New Jersey. The woman has a butt the size of the Garden State and carried a purse the size of Staten Island. Within seconds that purse efficiently swept the dining room buffet clear of a set of crystal candlesticks. “I’m sure they weren’t valuable,” she said and left.
A middle-aged gay couple were annoyed because the dining room could not accommodate a sit-down dinner for 12. This is true; 60-year old Coral Ridge homes are not noted for the size of their dining rooms. They were followed by an older man who felt the house should have faced east, and a mother/daughter team who were appalled that the house lacked walk-in closets. This was also true; 60-year old Coral Ridge homes are not noted for the size of their closets.
A youngish couple got belligerent and said they could get a lot more house for the money in Weston. This is true; they could get a lot more house for their money in Tulsa, too, and if you live in Weston you may as well live in Tulsa as far as I am concerned.
A middle-aged woman with the face of a hanging judge said the house would look bigger if we chopped down our magnificent 60-year old shade trees, and that the master bedroom would look larger if we removed the bed. When she tried to enter the spare bedroom our docile, old cat, which was sleeping on the bed, reared up, arched her back and hissed that woman right out of the house.
By far my favorite guests were the two middle-aged couples from Ohio who made snide remarks about our décor, disparaged our pets and condescendingly debated if the house was a short sale. When they went to look at the patio I tiptoed out and closed the self-locking door after them. They may still be there for all I care, sniping about the paint color and debating which trees to chop down first.