So.
I asked my insurance agent for a recommendation for a real estate agent. I have never ever used one, and have known Doug since we moved here in 1994, and so when he named this person, I was ok with it. I gave her a call, set up an appointment, and in the meantime, I dithered and fretted.
What I expected from her? A list of What-the-Fuck-Do-I-Need-To-Do. In some sort of order, even. Do this, don't worry about that, etc. A Plan of Action, in other words. Help me!
What I got? Go ahead and move, get your crappy belongings and trash out of the place, and maybe, just maybe, I can sell your house.
Maybe not in so many words, but that was the impression that I got from her. This was after I told her the history of the house, how it was built, stories about the town, la la la.
I fired her last night, and I think she was relieved.
Today, in a fit of inspiration, I decided to make a blog about this house, and I'll try to sell it that way.
The Old Hurst House.
I have pictures and stories and real-ass history. And blogger is free.
Leaving tomorrow for Missouri, a place about an hour west of St. Louis. Job interview and pee-in-a-cup scheduled for 9 am CST. I am still dithering and fretting, but I have engaged a painter/glazier/drywaller in the nonce and have set him to work. Because in the last week, I have come up with my own What-the-Fuck-Do-I-Need-To-Do list.
Where's the bleach?
