Oh dear, I am tired.
Yesterday was always going to be a tough day in our continuing move to get the house ready to sell. But we lost any opportunity to put off til tomorrow what we should do today when we agreed to let our agent bring in a house hunter on Monday since he was only in town for another day or two before returning overseas.
So there was no turning back. Sunday was just plain hard work. Floors needed mopping, bathrooms needed scrubbing, rugs needed vacuuming. And on top of that all, we booked a special trash pickup from the council and I had to lug book cases, moldy garden umbrellas, plastic wine glasses, magazine racks, baskets, broken appliances, tables (including a broken picnic table) and other things that we just didn't need or want any more.
Much of the stuff was still good and in working condition. At least putting it out for the trash is totally guilt-free. There is no waste because within a couple of hours all the good stuff is gone. In fact, I was quite charitable and sorted it into broken stuff and working stuff to make it easier for the people who drive around looking for gems among the clean-up trash. They must not have trusted me because they took lots of the broken stuff, as well.
I also undertook mop duty for the little loo off the laundry room. It's called the half-bath in real-estate speak (as in the house has 2 1/2 baths). And because it is real-estate speak, half-bath actually means no bath, only a toilet and sink.
Anyhow, we have never used the half-bath in our nearly 10 years here because, frankly, two people don't need 2 1/2 baths. You can imagine what happens to the walls and floor of a room not used for 10 years, sitting off the laundry room and never given a thorough clean because it was so full of whatever we had that we couldn't figure out where else to put it.
Let's just say the mop won, but it was an epic struggle all the way to the final siren.
And LK was working even harder than me. Having de-cluttered by packing 38 boxes in four days, she turned her attention to other matters. She scrubbed down all eight of our deck chairs, even though I suggested to her that the cleanliness of the deck chairs was probably not going to be a factor in a decision to buy our house.
She even did a reasonably accurate impersonation of Faye Dunaway impersonating Joan Crawford. She decided the stairs needed to be cleaned. Not dust-mopped or vacuumed clean. Oh no, each of the 18 steps had to be individually dusted and hand scrubbed clean.
And that made it a two-person job. LK stood on a step, dusting and washing the one above it as she bent over. My job? I held the bucket. And in my mind, I composed short poems about the experience. Lots of good rhymes there.
Lily and her parents came over late in the afternoon. She usually jumps up into my arms, but I sat down in order to hold her. I explained that I had been working very hard and was quite tired. "All of my muscles are very sore," I said. "Even your butt muscles?" she asked.
I love a 7-year-old's humor. I told her, "No, my butt muscles are OK." All the while thinking, "Great. She's inherited her grandmother's sense of humor."
So there was a certain irony this morning as LK groaned slightly getting out of the car. Feeling the effect of all that bending over on the stairwell, she told me, "Even my butt muscles are sore."
I will have to remember to tell Lily the next time we see her.