I have no plans to downsize. Good thing, because no one wants to buy my house. According to a senior real estate specialist whom I heard speak recently, my abode violates every item on the house hunter’s wish list. Today’s buyers are 30- to 40-somethings, says the specialist, and they have very definite requirements—to which, of course, they are perfectly entitled.
Tiffany and Trevor want a house in move-in condition. They’re very busy. They don’t have time to do projects. Excuse me? Don’t projects come with the house, along with the mortgage? Oh, maybe Tiffany and Trevor don’t do mortgages either. My old house would never pass the no-projects test. There’s endless painting and remodeling to be done. The specialist says buyers want wood floors, but I don’t think she means my wood floors, which bear witness not only to people traffic but also to the scramblings of five dogs and countless cats (though not all at one time), and years of careless furniture rearranging.
Despite the wind gusts that come into the living room, I haven’t replaced the windows because I like the look of the old ones. Mismatched wood, caulking gone bad, doors that don’t close tight, and ceilings of white plaster swirled with sepia, courtesy of past ice dams, would all be anathema to today’s busy, busy buyer.
Steam radiators, iffy outlets
All systems go, says the real estate specialist. The electrical and heating systems have to be new and top-notch. I guess no one, let alone Tiffany and Trevor, could see the charm of steam radiators. The iron behemoths try—you can hear them trying—but they just can’t keep up. I can picture Tiffany bolting up in bed, hand to her heart, terrified at the first knock and clang from the downstairs radiator. The wiring’s been updated, but, to be honest, you have to pick and choose which sockets work in any given room.
Even though she probably has a personal chef or Trevor takes her to fancy restaurants, I’m sure Tiffany wants a beautiful kitchen. And that probably doesn’t mean the eclectic look: white fridge, black stove, blue cupboards. In my kitchen’s day, islands and granite belonged in oceans and quarries. The brick floor looks good, but I imagine Tiffany knows its nasty little secret: It shatters to smithereens any dish that comes its way.
What ‘stagers’ do
If I really did want to sell my house (the very phrase makes my stomach sink), it’s not totally hopeless. Since Tiffany and Trevor don’t do projects, I could. Or I could spend my retirement money having a professional do them. Somehow, neither of these choices appeals, which leaves the only other alternative: a stager. A successful staging could divert Tiffany and Trevor’s attention from the lurking projects.
It’s difficult to imagine how anything more could fit in my house without removing a lot of what’s there. And I guess that’s what stagers do. They would surely take away the hanging baskets from the old beam between the kitchen and dining room. Out would go all the extraneous items from the living room: the old metal buggy seat, the huge laundry basket with magazines from 50 years ago, and the three small stools piled on one another by the couch, which have never remained balanced like the ones in the magazine. Upstairs, they would remove the green wooden highchair I thought would be so cute for … something. And the wooden boxes serving no practical purpose. After taking away everything that’s “me,” what would they bring in? I can’t imagine.
So I’m glad I’m not really downsizing. By the time my house does go on the market, maybe Tiffany and Trevor will have been downsized.
