So, we are now trying to sell This Old House.  There is a "for sale" sign in the front yard, a stack of flyers in the foyer and a bunch of signs saying "do not let cat outside," "do not let cat in bedroom," "do not let cat in basement" and "do not let cat drive your car."  Okay, I made the last one up. The cat isn't even speaking to me anymore what with all the hubbub I made reorganizing the closets to make them look bigger tonight.

As I was doing this frantic reorganization, I thought back to 2001 when my beloved and I bought This Old House.  We had been married for a few months. It seems like 80 years ago. Something about the baby does that to you, I think.  I remembered the New Year's Eve that I spent the latter part of passed out on the hall floor. The many different types of flowers I attempted to grow before we decided to put down 14 tons of genuine Kansas river rock.  Where I bought and when I framed every painting or photograph in the house.  The day we brought the little angel home from the hospital.  I remember getting out of the truck and looking in the back seat and thinking that I would never again just hop  out of the car without stopping to get my little girl or wishing she was still back there.  I remember the day we brought home the bushes planted in urns in the backyard, how annoyed I get with our four beautiful, mature trees every fall when they drop their leaves, how beautiful the hibiscus bushes are in August when they bloom lilac, pink and white.  How I have lived in this house longer than I had lived anywhere since my parents' house. This is the house where I really grew up, where I became an adult responsible for someone other than myself.  This front porch is where my beloved and I have had almost every important conversation in our marriage, from deciding to have children to deciding that I should go back to work to deciding he should not start his own business anytime soon to deciding to take a chance and try to put This Old House up for sale.  It is a bit bittersweet.

What is not bittersweet is the long list of suggestions our realtor gave us for "last-minute improvements."  One of them was "pull up carpeting upstairs and put down runner."  I thought to myself, is she crazy?  I'll bet she voted Republican. Does she not realize that we finished refinishing the downstairs hardwoods ourselves after we moved in?  Does she not realize that there is probably glue stuck to the hardwoods under the carpets upstairs?  That once we pulled carpet up, there is no putting it back down?  Does she really think this is something I could manage before our Sunday open house when my beloved is in Madison until Friday, my mother is passed out again on my futon and the little angel can't stand to be by herself for more than 20 minutes?  I pictured myself, little angel Baby Bjorned to my torso, ripping up carpet to reveal a glossy, perfect hardwood floor underneath, jogging to Pottery Barn and throwing down a cool $600 for a classic runner.  Yeah, and maybe French fries are good for you.  Maybe Bush will leave Iraq a functioning democratic state.  Maybe monkeys will fly out of my ass.

There were other suggestions on the list that made more sense.  Rake the leaves.  Clean the gutters.  For God's sake, screw an outlet plate over that exposed socket.  I can see the validity in those suggestions.  But PULL UP THE CARPET?  Is she insane?  God love her.  She is a professional.

But please.  Am I the only one who thinks that is insane?