The real estate agents just stopped by. There's still a tweak or two to be done. Some artwork to be changed out. A new orchid for the dining room table now that the one I bought at Trader Joe's for my New Year's Eve Party has decided to crap out. But I've done well, they say, despite the fact that the powder room is still turquoise, and my big antique armoires are still taking up space, sucking a little too much oxygen out of the air. But the photo shoot for tomorrow morning is on.
How did this all start? Staging. For real estate. Do they do this shit in Iowa? Nebraska? I want to know.
So the upshot is--I don't really live here anymore. Some alternate me lives here. Some uberhyperneatnik that has embroidered towels, perfumed soap, and only the most tasteful arrangement of books on her bookshelves lives here. How about that, daughters?!?! Could your mother get any scarier? I am now truly your worst neat-freak nightmare.
Maybe I'll sleep in the garage. With my stuff.
Oh. And, um, now is not a good time to visit.