The winning number

36 days our house has been on the market. 36 days of cleaning, and complaining about cleaning.
6 showings.

One showing the very first week with only fifteen minutes notice, causing Karrie to go into panic mode and tidy frantically. I recall stuffing a few dirty dishes in with the clean ones in the dishwasher. Grabbing the dog and tossing him the van only to realize he had done his business right inside the gate to the backyard. Cue more frantic cleaning up.
Only to be told in the summary afterwards, that they thought the basement smelled like dog. Lovely.

That spurred an obsession with smelling every time I went into the downstairs. I concluded to Ryan that I wasn't meant for this whole business. I was driving myself crazy.

Four showings while we were gone to PEI. Those were the best. Simply because I had no idea they happened!

Sixth showing two days ago. I had been on strike for a few days. I was only going to clean meticulously if some one called. Otherwise I was going to let those crumbs sit there until evening. It was Sunday. No one was going to come. No one had came for a week. I was going to take the family out swimming instead. We came home at 3:30 in the rain on our bikes. Clayton says there's a showing at 5. Uh, 5? Like in an hour?? Shit. Cue frantic cleaning.  That's what I get for slacking off.

Six must be our lucky number though. Yesterday, while stuck at work all day long, we had an offer.  A good offer too.

That's right folks. Barring a home inspection, which is no biggie, we are about to be officially homeless.

Did I mention there's zero to rent here? Especially with a dog?

I'd cue the frantic everything, but frankly I'm over it. Surely it will all work out somehow?

Oh dear, all this selling business has made me delusional. I told you I wasn't cut out for this!