One of many things I did very recently to get this house ready to put up for sale was to paint the front door. My friend Lucy pointed out some chipped paint on the frame; the realtor later mentioned the same on her first visit.
So I did some digging to find something I remembered coming across when we first bought the house: a thick file with paperwork regarding absolutely everything that had ever been done to this place. Sometimes it pays to be a pack rat. Or at least, sometimes it benefits someone else.
But wait, what is that? That circle thing that reflected the flash on this puny point-and-shoot wonderful camera I am so grateful my mother gave me to use after mine bit the dust?
Ah, that’s right. Olivia was saying something about wanting to put a “for sale” sign on the door, but I told her it wasn’t time yet. I guess she improvised.
So back to the pack-rat file — I found the original brochure for the paint store, where, a couple two-three owners ago, someone bought some red paint. Country Redwood, to be exact. So I went to that same store, and I bought that same paint.
Can anyone defend, justify, or otherwise explain the high cost of Benjamin Moore paint? Because that’s outrageous.
But it did look good when all was said and done. I went ahead and painted the whole dang thing. Why not? Might as well get my money’s worth. Besides, the door had various scratches and knicks in addition to the chips on the frame. And now? It looks real good.
But wait, what’s that I see on the door now? It’s not a for sale sign…
But it is a lockbox. Because the house, is now, indeed, for sale. Olivia’s note notwithstanding; I’m sure she’ll be making a new one soon. In the meantime, we’re officially on the market.
(I left Huckster in there just for you, Renee.) (Since I know how much you love cats.)