Monday, March 20, 2006

What Looks Like Crazy

I must have been out of my mind.

When I uttered the words, "Let's move," I must have had a contact high. Moving is the single greatest penance for sin ever paid by someone not born in a manger.

Tonight, we put the finishing touches on the house so it can go on the market, and we can have strangers tramping up and down the halls criticizing our paint/flooring/tile/curtain/etc choices. If you have never put a house up for sale, let me advise you immediately to avoid doing it. I don't care if the entire population of Arkansas moves and takes up residence in the house next door, and sets up bathtubs and tire rims for the babies out on the front lawn. Grab a garden hose and roll with it. You will be happier than if you try to pretend that there is actually a such thing as 'a place for everything and everything in its place' in your house.

Currently, I have socks stuffed into bedside tables. I can't find their matches, and I can't bring myself to throw them out, and somehow I don't feel they've earned the right to be in the sock drawer with the other, well trained, pairs of socks. I have spare clothing tossed into a trunk, which is doubling as a family room coffee table. We are going to gate the dog into the guest bedroom not only because we want to avoid crating her, but because anyone opening the guest bedroom closet would be doing so at their peril.

This is insane. This is worse than moving. This is moving, but cleaning up first. What part of tidying up an item you are soon to put into a box makes any sense? Why can't people just look past my son's smelly tennis shoes (one pair is currently airing on the deck as I type) and focus on the important stuff: like the fact that we just installed an entirely brand spanking new kitchen. All the bells and whistles. Granite countertops. Stainless appliances. The works! The works which will be overshadowd by the dingy assed coffee maker and stank toaster as soon as some nosy person decides to check the innards of the appliance garage.

I keep reminding myself that we want a single family home. My husband reminded me of that tonight when I collapsed on the guest room bed and told him I'd changed my mind. I was having a moment, but if he'd suggested calling the realtor right then, I can't help but think of where I'd be right now.

In. Bed.

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