When I was nineteen, I had a crush on a guy named Brock. He was part of the fraternity where I was a little sister, and I thought he was super cute. I told one of my buddies from high school about him, and he said, "Brock? His name is Brock? What's his last name? Savagewood?" He was even more amused when I told him he came from a town called Gunbarrel. He imagined that this guy must be totally burly, or at least a rangy, macho cowboy. No, he sort of looked like Andrew McCarthy did in the 80s, and he wore the trendy (at the time) color mint green so often, we girls referred to it as "Brock color." Things never worked out for me and Brock (I was soon distracted by another guy who lived at the same fraternity house who also never seemed to be "the one"), but I never forgot my friend's reaction to his name. Ever since, almost every time I drive through Gunbarrel, I remember that exchange. I wonder whatever happened to old Brock Savagewood. I haven't seen him since college, since long before I graduated. I wonder whether he still wears mint green.
I was so happy that I was holding an open house in Gunbarrel today. I planned my outfit and printed MLS flyers the night before. I had my schedule set in my head for when I had to leave the house and be there on time. All I had to do this morning was dress and throw my stuff in the car. I knew the open house signs were in the garage, and I just needed to grab them and correct the dry erase marker on them to the right time. I looked for them. And I looked. And I went in circles around the garage. And I looked in the house. And I went back to the garage. And I called out to my roommate to see whether he knew where they were, and he didn't answer me because he was sleeping so heavily. And I looked some more. Then panic set in. I burned at least twenty minutes, maybe more, looking for signs that I decided must have been stolen out of the garage, because the last place I remembered seeing them was near the door, leaning up against the back of the Jeep. So I raced over to Staples to buy more, and they weren't open yet. So I tried Target, which was on the way toward the target house. No joy. I was pulling into the parking lot at Home Depot, when my boss called and said forget the signs, you are late, get over there NOW. I opened the house a full 25 minutes late. I am mortified and I feel awful that I might have missed people who would have lined up to see it right at the advertised start time (as so many other open houses have done). This was my first chance to be in a Boulder county property, where I sincerely want to work, and I made a horrible first impression.
The good news is that there were four groups of people who seemed very interested in the house, so I don't think I necessarily cost the sellers any chance at an offer. I just committed one of the ultimate sins an agent can, in being horribly late. I had a panic attack all morning before it started, and I tried to tell myself the people who did come were high quality respondents, not just looky-loos. But I still kicked myself all afternoon once it was over, and dug myself right back in that anxiety hole. The first time I giggled all day was late tonight when someone put up a video of a bank of computer disc drives performing Smells Like Teen Spirit, and it was so perfect for that song.
I had three amazingly successful open houses in a row. Having just ten total people come through the door feels like a letdown. It really isn't. In a normal market, that's a respectable showing for a two hour open house. I've gotten spoiled with the 70+ attendee ones I hosted earlier this year. I'll be back on my A game next time. I promised the boss I would be, and I will. This will just put it all into perspective later.
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