"You're not supposed to show your panties!" Bee wisely declares and shoves a nutella-covered bite of banana in her tiny mouth. No mom, you're not.
Quick! What's the worst-case-scenario you can think of when your house is on the market? I mean besides a stark realization of the economy? An agent walking in the house singing, "hellooooo!" while there are 900 paper dolls on the floor and the kids are milliseconds away from being covered in beans? Because you FORGOT ABOUT A SHOWING OF YOUR HOME? Oh yeah, that was me exactly 68 minutes ago. At least I was dressed.
I dunno, I just forgot. I thought it was tomorrow or something. Right? Crap. There's too much to keep track of. So I'm in my kitchen, hustlin' with some lunch for the kids with my hair in a gordian knot when the buyer's agent just waltzed on in with a Pottery Barn Perfect family following behind her. Stove top being used as a drying rack? Check. Lunch smells hanging in the air? Check. All the surfaces wiped and skivvies decently hidden? That I cannot check. In she walks. By some bizarre twist of fate, our eyes meet and I realize I actually know the agent. She used to date a friend of Niko's. We're homies of sorts. So I feel relatively comfy verbally barfing I NEED TEN MINUTES!!!!! AHHHH!!! at her. I mean, I think she slept over here once and got down in my guest room. There's a little camraderie between us. I'm not sure there was enough camaraderie to grease the visual of Bee walking out completely nude while brushing her teeth, but oh well.
So I shooed the crew away and busted out my best tornado moves to make this place pop. I was like Trinity from the Matrix. I had ten arms flying in supersonic dimensions shoving dish soap under and cracker boxes inside. Toys in! Pillows on! Shoes away! As I wound down my warp-speed spit shine of my abode, I threw some dresses on my kids and walked out the door. I was almost proud of myself. These people must think I'm a genius rock star mom because I'm showroom ready in ten minutes! You can walk in my house any time of day and all I need is ten minutes to have matching toddlers peacefully walking to the car and a sparkling home in my wake. Eat my jorts, June Cleaver! I am SUCH a GOD.
The girls and I ran down the street and I had my first meal at a real restaurant alone with my daughters. Sure, we've dined at Chez Target together a thousand times without daddy but today they both sat across the booth from me at Icosium Kafe and we ladies ordered crepes. It was genteel. They giggled about the umbrellas in their drinks, I answered questions about what squirrels eat and why mint leaves are green, yet gum is white. (Answer: no stinking clue.) And then . . . I remembered.
My black and red lace thong is strewn across my bed, isn't it?
Panic. Face drain. Terse answers to my toddlers questions as to where bananas come from and why don't they call crepes, "pancake rollups"? I DON'T KNOW, PEOPLE! I THINK I LEFT MY UNDERWEAR LAYING OUT ON ACCIDENT!
We got the check and ambled home. Yup. It was worse than I thought. Not only was my thong in an oddly conspicuous place, but an empty toilet paper roll was sitting by the sink and there was a diaper wipe on the floor by the high chair. It was pretty much a trifecta of horror. I may as well have left tampons on the welcome mat or a giant dildo on the dining room table. Not that I do that. I don't!
I wonder if during that matrix moment my subconscious booby-trapped the house with cooties because I really don't want to leave? It's like that Volkswagon commercial where the buyer licks the door handle to claim it as his. My underwear and garbage were Keep Away signs. Keep away from my miniature Xanadu, buyers of Chicago!!!!
What? Like you don't have a pair of these? Liars.
UPDATE! This just in! Apparently it was a scheduling error on the other end, so I didn't drop the ball. I could be indignant about it, but it was kind of funny. And I got to eat crepes. Success!
UPDATE 2.0! Now I have to live as if an errant agent could walk in at any moment. That means no more belting out full Disney toons at the top of my lungs or wearing those rude shorts that don't fit. Should I start sleeping in Spanx? Posing as I watch intellectual documentaries while snacking on organic fruits. "Oh, you caught me so off guard! I was just finishing For Whom The Bell Tolls while snuggling in my fair trade afghan!"
Every day I'm snugglin'
Thanks Yarn Yuck