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When we're not fleeing the house so people can look at it, we're doing one of two things: 1) making it more presentable, and 2) setting boobie traps to make sure the house is being shown and we're not running around like fugitives for nothing.

Our house is in pretty good shape, crapshack jokes aside. It could be better, but I think that being completely fed up with the house and neighborhood for two years blinded us to the perks of our house. Yesterday, our buyer's agent, who's been in this business nearly as long as I've been alive, raved about our beautiful hardwood floors. He asked if they were new. No, they're the originals, which we never refinished after ripping out the carpet.

When B. and I look at the hardwood floors, we don't see how pretty they are. We see the rows and rows and rows of staples and screws placed in the floors by the previous owner, who surely suffered through the days before viable treatments for obsessive-compulsive disorders became readily available and didn't involved taking a few volts to the noggin.

Last night I took a little tour through the house and photographed some of the things we might consider changing to improve our chances of a speedy sale.

Remove the dinner plate from the cookbook shelves in the hallway, far from where the plates are stored.

Remove reminders of Tequilafest '07.

One toddler's mural masterpiece, which extends the length of the long hallway wall, is a potential buyer's red nightmare.

Truth in advertising is the ethical way to go. Despite the presence of a toilet and Pottypalooza in our single bathroom, this doesn't give us the right to claim more than one bath.

A wine recommendation, written on an advertisement for a popular prescription antidepressant and prominently stuck to the breadbox tells potential buyers that the current owners are drunk, crazy, and will almost certainly forget they've moved. You'll find them curled up in the backyard, sleeping under the clothes dryer vent sooner or later.