|We're going to the Kellerman's house. I hear it rains in the garage and beer flows out of the faucets."|
The sign is up.
That's right, people. The Split level hits the market in just a couple days, and the most interesting thing about that is the event's timing matches up perfectly with my sanity running out.
No, no, it's sweet you think I'm sane, but the reality is I'm sitting her in a raggedy t-shirt, jean shorts with a broken zipper, and boots up to my knee, drinking cold coffee that has McDonald's Monopoly pieces floating in it. Shortly before writing this, I went out in public that way. Your call.
We have two categories of information today.
The house had its picture taken and, if I do say so myself, managed to look slightly better on film than in real life. Maybe it was the filter. Maybe the poor lighting hid the cracks in the walls just right. But what I witnessed was magic and the fruits of toil only the cosmic universe who's listened to eleven months of expletives can fully understand.
That said, I promised a virtual tour, and by gum, you guys are gonna get one. As soon as I have access to the illustrious photos, you can look upon the only time my house has ever been really and truly clean.
(Disclaimer - To get the full effect of what the Split level is really like, you'll be obligated to add way more crap to the floors with your mind's eye. Thank you.)
As with most things in life, when the Kellermans take one step forward, they're automatically required to take twenty steps back. This keeps us humble but also works on the hard-to-define portion of our calves.
This rule wasn't modified even slightly when we decided to sell. Holes to patch, vents to replace, social security cards to dig out from under the refrigerator, there's been no shortage of small tasks to complete before the move. And all of it had been checked off... But, just like ninety-percent of that biology test I took in college, I was wrong.
The papers had just been signed. House priced. Realtor had just let us know the house wasn't worth 10.5 million dollars as I'd hoped, but I was at peace.
"Moooooooom! Oooooh noooooo! Help me. Help me. Help me!"
By this point in the parent game, I pretty much ignore most cries for help. But as I stared at the ceiling in the baby's room, waiting for him to quit playing opossum and fall asleep, I couldn't help thinking perhaps Sundance was submitting a legitimate complaint. I stuck my head out the door.
Never stick your head out the door.
Sundance perched on the toilet, looking desperate as water poured over the toilet in a strangely beautiful yet horrifying waterfall and hit the floor. By the time got to the scene, it was Atlantis. What follows is a rough transcript of events you're glad you weren't there for:
Me: What the hell? What did you put down there, a small lap dog?"
Husband: What? What's wro- Oh for love of. I'm trying to watch the playoff game. Why, Lord? Why?
Me: Turn off the water. In the name of all that's good and holy, turn off the water. I don't know how because I'm only self-sufficient with select, obscure life skills.
Husband: *Bolts back down stairs because it's the Royals. Screw you, underwater bathroom.*
Me: Right. *Stares at empty doorway before throwing last clean towel I was going to use to shower with at the situation. Things are at peace. The water has exited stage left and the bathroom has the sparkle a room gets when you're forced to clean up a mess. I call this "accidentally clean." It's irritating but satisfying. I don't like it.*
Husband: Thanks for cleaning that up. It's just that the game. You know. *Voice trails off inaudibly as I head for the garage.*
Husband: Yeah? We're down by three.
Me: You know how we had one project left that entailed patching, sanding, priming, and then painting the door the twins turned into something that didn't look like a door?
Husband: The one that was finally dry and ready to be primed first thing in the morning?
Me: Indeed. The one that was literally minutes from being finished.
Husband: I remember that door.
Me: Well, I'm looking at that door and the funny thing about it is that the garage rained poop water on it and it's ruined. Also, the garage is a lot wetter than it usually is. Like, I'm wondering if we should up the price of the house and tell everyone we have an indoor pool.
Inconvenience, that cruel mistress of bad haircuts and shallow paper cuts had struck again.
Oh lady of no parking spots and dented soup cans, why do you loathe the Kellermans so?
On the bright side, Kellermans also aren't quitters unless a full body cast is involved, so we, like our beloved Royals, rallied and conquered the door today. I've spackled, sanded, primed, and painted my way to victory.
Does it look very good? No!
Is there a chance people will think it was made by first world craftsmen whose job it is to build beautiful pieces of gateway art? No!
Will we hang it anyway? Yes, yes we will.
And on that note, the realtor just texted and ask if it was up yet, so I should probably go do that. Wish us luck, my dears. Wish us luck.
Until Next Time, Readers!
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