House v. Home

My Estate Agent calls yesterday, with a request: could I rent the machine from Home Depot, and refinish my floors in the downstairs?

Right. I’m going to apply a product I know nothing about, to use a machine that will strip my floor bare, and, sidebar, I’ve no idea how to operate, the night before strangers are traipsing through my home. I told her to sand and buff my lilly white ass.

Iv’e spent a fortune on “dressing” (read: returnable) items, and have staged the house, and while it’s lovely? I so think that H and I should take up residence somewhere else until it’s sold. He’s been back from his visit with his dad for like eight seconds, and already the soundtrack to our life is along the “Don’t Sit There, Leave That - It’s A Decoration” lines, and less of the “This Is Home, Knock Yourself Out” soundtrack.

Plus, while I always notice how black his feet are, upon his return, this trip, I’m more aware than usual….as in, I nearly bleached him before letting him in the door. I don’t want him on the floor, and he’s bitching at me that he’s not a baby, when I insisted upon carrying him across the rugs I just shampooed, lest he leave dark prints in the clean wake.

I know it’s not fair, but honestly, you can only have a show house …. to show. Not, evidently, to live in.

Which honestly, is why I’ve always had a lovely home, not a lovely house. Homes are for block messes, lego pieces, artwork on the fridge, and crumbs in the sheets. Home is where you can stomp through to the tub on dirty piggies, and giggle at the black streaks you leave on the tub floor. Home is for digging, playing, stomping, sidewalk chalk, dog fur and leftovers.

Currently, my house is in better shape than it ever has been - the fridge is scrubbed within and inch of it’s life, and I came home to find all the food organized by size, shape, type and color. My Agent had time on her hands.

And I wondered, not for the first time tonight, if she had so much flipping time on her hands, why didn’t she redo the wood floors???