Selling a home has got to rank as one of the top most stressful life events, right behind getting married or moving across the country. We spent all weekend at my condo, painting, cleaning, staging.
What drives me nuts is when people guarantee a deadline, then don’t meet it. Maybe I don’t completely understand because I’m not a contractor, but if I’m constantly late, then I’d probably build a buffer into my timeline and say, “Well hell, I typically don’t deliver on-time, so instead of being done on Wednesday, let’s just say I won’t be done until next Wednesday for good measure!”
Right? Wouldn’t you want to underpromise and overdeliver? Isn’t that the basic tenet of contracting?
But no. Come Friday night, we’re nowhere near done. Come Saturday when I’m expecting my real estate agent to come by, we’re nowhere near done. It’s now Monday and we’re still not finished.
Throughout the weekend, I started hyperventilating, thinking, what would Jesus do? That’s my Lenten promise, to take a deep breath, calm down, and think of Jesus. But every time I thought of Jesus, I thought about the time he went to the synagogue and saw that people had turned the place into a Biblical Walmart. He opened up a can of whoop ass and went postal! He was so mad at these people for disrespecting the temple of God, for taking advantage of the poor, and profiting off of the lowly.
And I thought yeah. Jesus got mad and I can get mad too, because I feel taken advantage of. This isn’t Monopoly money we’re talking about. This is tens of thousands of cold hard cash. This is my blood, sweat, and tears. This is the only home that I own, this is my savings. And people are telling me they’re going to be done on a certain day and they’re not. So every single day we’re late is money down the F*ing toilet.
So yesterday my husband Dean’s telling me to chill out, it will get done when it gets done, and I went all Jesus on him. Not loaves and fishes Jesus, but protesting, tirading, anti-Walmart Jesus.
“WHAT PART OF LOSING MONEY DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?!” I screamed in my sacred Lenten voice.
That didn’t help any. I tried to simmer down. I walked out of the apartment and downstairs into the backyard (which also needs work, but I cannot even deal with that right now). I walked back upstairs into the apartment and sat down on the couch, twitching with subdued rage. Since I can’t assist with the painting and I cleaned everything I could possibly clean, I’m completely useless. I pick up our book club book, Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, hollering at Dean, “Well I’m just going to sit here and read my book club book about a man who murders his wife. You let me know when it’s time to go home.”