May 11, 2006
So fresh, so clean, so fast
How to survive at-random showings by your Realtor.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Tired of the long drive Downtown, traffic as tight as a jealous girlfriend's noose and only three slightly-above-mediocre restaurants in his Northeastside neighborhood, my boyfriend recently put his house up for sale.

With this, new ways of exploring my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder befell my neat-as-a-pin talents.

I get a little choked up when life comes together so beautifully.

Having a house for sale puts one at the mercy of constant yet sporadic "showings."

The Realtor usually calls when my boyfriend and I are napping, cooking or have unknowingly just tracked in 5 cubic yards of mulch, telling us she'll be stopping by in 15 minutes with a couple greatly interested in symmetrical vacuum tracks on the carpet and a kitchen sink that glows in heavy fog.

For me, this is like getting picked first for kickball; for my boyfriend, it's a real pain in the arse.

In one 15-minute spree I vacuumed five rooms, made the bed, straightened the bathroom hand towels, unloaded/loaded the dishwasher and took out the trash; in this same amount of time my boyfriend turned on lights around the house.

I can accomplish any household chore in 1/8-Flight-of-the-Bumblebee-time while heating up a turkey sandwich and applying lipstick.

Clean house accomplished, heart racing with an athlete's flourish, I searched for my boyfriend; he was outside hosing off the driveway.

Now, if I were house shopping, a freshly hosed driveway might be the first thing I'd hope for, but I explained to my boyfriend that this could slightly, I mean maybe just a little, be a complete waste of his quality hygienic time.

I always feared settling for Mr. Right when I knew Mr. Clean could be waiting just around the corner.

When the house is spotless (be still, my fulfilled little heart) my boyfriend and I jump into the car and hide out for an hour or so.

During the first two weeks of "open houses" held at his place, we found this time to be magical; a date, if you will.

"Wanna grab coffee and hang out at the bookstore?" he'd ask.

We'd hold hands and I found enchantment in real estate.

Now, a few more weeks into it, our tune is changing.

"The Realtor just called; there's a showing in a half hour," he'll say.

"I'm beginning to hate her," I reply.

We scrub, polish, vacuum, fold and leave; we begrudgingly park two blocks away and wait it out.