Last week, I had to choose between giving fruits to my kids or keeping them in the bowl, the centerpiece of the table, an exquisite balance of colors, shapes, and sizes. The bowl won, hands down. “But of course,” confirmed Srini when I confessed to him. “Well done,” said the real estate agent.
Most importantly, we hope the buyers say “well done.” That – and a little above asking — is that, after all, too much to ask for all our troubles?
It’s been a boot camp of sorts, living in this make-believe house. When you sell a house, it’s become clear to me, you are not just selling the walls and the layout and the garden; you are selling a dream. You live in a way people only dream of living, and you convince them that with this perfect house, they too will have perfect furnishings and perfect accents, perfect children and the perfect husbands. If only they could see the bloody road to perfection.
It starts with a heartless decluttering. Everything, it seems, must go. All the piles of paper – the coupons you hoped to use one day, the magazines you hoped to read – in the recycling. The bookshelves must be whittled down to a single file, organized by size. Kids’ artwork — too ill-shapen, too randomly colored — in the bin. Family pictures – hide them in boxes. How are people to imagine themselves in this house if all they see are you and your clan?
Clear the surfaces of all things you don’t use daily — the rice maker, the towel rack, video games… you get the picture. Then move on to things you do use daily — the shoe rack; the garbage cans; the laundry basket; cell phone chargers — stuff them in the closets, hide them in the garage; give them to Goodwill. Only one or two respectable titles should remain on your nightstand; the rest go. The bathroom — surely you know by now. No one wants to see your ridiculous regimen. Toys and games — box them up. No one will miss them anyway.
And stop the inflow of clutter. Cancel the papers. Junk the junk mail before it enters the house. Put a moratorium on all non-consumable purchases. Postpone your kids’ birthday parties. If you must have them, keep them strictly “no gift.” And cater. Better yet, host it off-site.
Once the house is bare and spare, call in the experts – the stagers. They walk around the house, take copious notes, and if you’re lucky, forgive you your mismatching bedroom set. Then they go back to their headquarters and send you a number. Deep breath. Gotta spend money to lose a little less money than you would otherwise.
Then they come back, the stylish lady with the vision and two husky men, ready to lift, move, and drill at her command. They unload a truck-full of chairs, lamps, rugs, fake potted plants, pictures, baskets, towels into your house and ask you to leave. Four hours later, you return.
This is not my beautiful house…
But this is your house. Kind of. New cushions accent the sofas; new lamps brighten every corner. Shiny new bedcovers, steam-ironed in place, glare at you. Don’t you dare plop down. Artwork graces every dull wall. Lovely cherry blossom sprigs peek out from the kangaroo pockets folded into hand towels. A platter of green apples and delicate yellow flowers fills out the coffee table – just like in the magazines!
And now, we live in a magazine. The kids have been trained – shoes go in the closets; backpacks in the pantry. No painting, no Play-Doh. The closet upstairs is their playroom now; nothing leaves those doors. For art and homework supplies, go look in the garage. And don’t even talk to me about getting a dog.
And we grownups make our beds, hang up our clothes, pay the bills on time (or hide them), fold away the laundry instead of using it directly from a heap. We cook curries only when no showings are scheduled; we wash up immediately afterwards.
We should have been doing a lot of these things anyway. You could almost say we needed this whip. And it’s not all that bad. No one minds the trip-free hallways, the serene surfaces. I just can’t wait ’til I can stop sweeping these gleaming floors.
