I set up for an open house on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. Fresh flowers, soft music, cookies in the oven—the whole staging fantasy. First visitor walks in, takes one look around, and asks if I can show her a completely different house she saw online. In a different zip code. That I don't have listed. Before I could respond, a guy came in and started opening every closet and cabinet like he was searching for Narnia. Found him twenty minutes later in the garage measuring the walls with a tape measure he brought from home, muttering about whether his "project cars" would fit. Plural. Then a woman spent forty-five minutes grilling me about the neighbors' political affiliations, the HOA president's divorce, and whether the family two doors down "seemed like the type to have loud parties." Ma'am, I met the sellers twice. The absolute highlight was the couple who ate six cookies each, used the bathroom, asked for the WiFi password, and left without looking at a single room. Just treated my open house like a rest stop on their Sunday drive. Logged four hours. Zero leads. My feet still hurt.