In which I am mortified
This morning as I left the house, I took a look around, just to see what was out or lying around, thinking that I'd need to add a once-over to my routine. You know: all shoes put away, nothing in the sink, laptop out of sight, etc. But all I did was *think* because my house wasn't going to be listed until this afternoon at 2pm.
So I had a suit draped over the banister railing -- must go to cleaner's -- some bowls in the sink and my laptop out.
The realtor came down to put up the sign and lockbox, and while she was doing that someone scheduled a visit for this afternoon. So she washed my dishes and put my clothes away, tidied up.
I was mortified. I mean, the house is neat and clean, and nothing too personal needed to be hidden, but I'm still very sorry to have left something for someone else to clean up.
There's a second visit scheduled for tomorrow. And I have to make myself scarce on Sunday for the open house. This is all picking up speed. [Sadly, the house I really liked already has an offer, so I must keep looking.]
So I had a suit draped over the banister railing -- must go to cleaner's -- some bowls in the sink and my laptop out.
The realtor came down to put up the sign and lockbox, and while she was doing that someone scheduled a visit for this afternoon. So she washed my dishes and put my clothes away, tidied up.
I was mortified. I mean, the house is neat and clean, and nothing too personal needed to be hidden, but I'm still very sorry to have left something for someone else to clean up.
There's a second visit scheduled for tomorrow. And I have to make myself scarce on Sunday for the open house. This is all picking up speed. [Sadly, the house I really liked already has an offer, so I must keep looking.]