Off to church we go. About 15 minutes into it, a cell phone rang. A very loud, obnoxious, I-can't-believe-that-person-has-that-stupid-ring-on-their-cell-phone ring in the middle of a congregation of 328 eyes...no make that 656 eyes. Wait, yes, it was mine. I rush to turn it off but.the.button.won't.turn.it.off. Woops. In my fury to turn it off, yes, I was punching desperately at the wrong one. I finally flip it around and silence the madness. By this point, I had already turned 12 shades of magenta and didn't even recognize the number. Freak. Stop calling me.
It could be a realtor wanting to show our house. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! I'm crying desperately inside. The house is as far away from being shown as it could possibly get, but more on that later.
I get up and recall the number. It must be my lucky day. Realtor X wants to show our house in 15 to 20 minutes. Even if I wasn't a good Christian, I couldn't have left church in time to get home and clean up the mess. We're screwed. I explained to him in a very psychotic way that the house is a mess, we're still finishing painting the bathroom, a treadmill is the hallway, the kitchen is a WRECK and we had to leave for church before I could clean...I'll conveniently leave out that 45 minute nap I took this afternoon that could have been spent cleaning. It wasn't worth the headache it gave me anyway.
So I return to my seat and all I can see instead of the words on the song book is my kitchen. The treadmill in the hallway. The clothes, probably dirty underwear in our bathroom floor. My PJ's strewn haphazardly across the unmade bed. Did we put up the KY? I didn't get much out of church tonight, needless to say. Hubby, of course, teasingly blamed me, because after all, he was painting all afternoon and all I did was just sleep. Loveable loser.
So I was so stressed I thought I was going to go into labor. Not really, but my blood pressure was definitely elevated to a dangerous level. However, when we got in our van (haven't I been through enough people?!?!), I saw I had missed more calls from the realtor. I called him and he was telling us our door lock was messed up. But...wait, what did you just say? They really liked the house? You think they're going to make an offer but you're waiting back for the final word? Yeah, no way. I don't believe you for a second. Sorry about the mess, sir, I'm really embarrassed. But he never said he was kidding about the offer, so either the people that looked at our house have never owned a place before and don't know this whole thing works, or our house must be the stuff. (Either of which is entirely possible, I love our house - well, in a cleaner state). So we'll see what tomorrow brings and if they make an offer. If they do, I'll consider it a blessing straight from the hands of God for a contract within 48 hours of listing it, because he knows I can't deal with 6 months of keeping this place spotless with two kids and being pregnant. I'm not expecting one, but it sure will be nice if we do!
So, after our giddy ride home from church, thinking about the prospect of getting an offer with 48 hours of listing our house, we walk in. Boy oh boy was it worse than I remembered. Our pizza pan was still on the oven from lunch, the smooth top oven anything but. Crumbs everywhere. Goldfish crackers (DIE!), dirty dishes, paint paraphernalia, splattered paint in the sink, and other questionable things that probably hasn't been wiped down since 2005. And don't get me started on my floors. Let's just say bleach is a common household item on my shopping lists these days. I don't think of us as dirty dwellers, we just don't deep clean much. What's the use with a 2 year old and an almost 1 year old?
But then...I walk into Chicken's room. Just because I was in a hurry when I was changing his diaper before we left doesn't mean anything. And just because we've started him on whole milk and he's a little constipated doesn't mean anything, either. Unless, of course, we had just shown our house. I walked in his room to hang up his jacket and something caught my eye on his changing table.
There, lying atop his soft little changing pad was a little dingleberry that apparently rolled right out of his diaper and I was never the wiser.
Yeah, these "contract" people certainly don't have high hopes for their new house.
And we're officially gross.