It’s been a slow realization on my part that selling and buying homes isn’t nearly as much fun as it’s portrayed on HGTV or as sexy as it seems on Bravo.
But the good news is that our house in Ohio is one step closer to being move-in ready because now we have a driveway. And steps to our front door. And a sidewalk in front of our drive.
The back yard still needs to be graded. I am so used to sloping yards I would never have noticed that the builder needed to replace dirt. It’s supposed to be flat here. I need to remember that.
Until that’s done, we can’t put a fence in. So if we move in before the fence is installed, my life will revolve around walking three dogs and picking up a lot of poop.
On the other side of the equation, we have reduced the price of our Roanoke house again, sending a signal to all potential homebuyers in our area that we are MOTIVATED sellers. As in, please make us a reasonable offer, please, oh please, oh please.
The entire conversation about reducing the price — conducted between our real estate agent and me, with me relaying it to Phil — happened while I was shopping at Kroger and not in some cute bistro in Manhattan or a beach side office with an ocean view or a park with blooming trees or any of those places I see on television.
It was in the peanut butter aisle, actually, as I searched for the particular flavor my daughter requested.
Remember when the only two choices in peanut butter were creamy and crunchy? I do. So I guess that makes me old.
Which is probably why 30 minutes before the real estate conversation happened in Kroger the 20-something manager of Metro Fitness in Delaware, Ohio, suggested that I might be interested in cardio classes they offer for older folks called Silver Sneakers.
Wait? Um, what?
Resisting the urge to yank the Ohio State ball cap off her head and feed it to her intravenously, I thought, damn, maybe I do need a root touch-up. And Botox. And a referral to a good plastic surgeon.
Maybe all this wheeling and dealing on houses and worrying about pets and trying to hold it together to be a supportive partner to my husband have taken a toll on my face.
Maybe instead of looking hot and sexy like the agents/buyers/sellers I see on “Million Dollar Listing” I am turning into one of the “Golden Girls.”
Or maybe that gym manager is just a bitch whom I will NEVER see again because I wouldn’t join her shitty little gym if it were the only place to exercise in all of Ohio.
Let’s go with that last choice.
Last night I went to a Zumba class later at a studio near our apartment and found out the Zumba means something completely different in Ohio than it does in Virginia. Kind of like Bollywood meets hip-hop meets lets-kick-your-ass-and-call-it-fun.
But I hung in there with every step. Take that, gym wench.