Columns: A Boys Life: On the Market
The hardest part is living like you’re in a Comfort Suites—without the maid service. With a prospective buyer pop-in possible at any time, you can’t run out for work with dishes in the sink, or the bed unmade, or your mail splattered all over the dining room table. You end up feeling like you’re living in a museum, albeit one you collected all the exhibits for.
I don’t know when I’ll sell the house, and for all her relentless breeziness, I know Caryn doesn’t, either. One day it’ll just happen, when someone walks in and, like I did, decides that he or she just has to have pie stairs and a mossy courtyard.
In the meantime, I’ll keep pumping out Febreze room spray and making my bed, daydreaming about the next gal I’ll fall for. And what color I’ll paint her when I do.
