Like most homes, my house is a work in progress. The main difference between my house and yours is that I write about mine, pitfall by pitfall.

As a result, I'm billed as a home design expert, when I'm really just a mildly obsessive journalist with a remodeling addiction who asks a lot of questions. Some days as I dole out design advice, I feel like the Wizard of Oz: Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.

But after writing more than 200 home columns and having a home-design book come out this month, I caused an alert editor to wonder, "Has anyone ever seen her home? How do we know she's not writing from inside a manhole?"

I had four days to turn this crash pad into a showplace. There were only two words: Code Blue.

Day One

I deep clean and organize the pantry, the mudroom closet, my closet. I prepare as if prospective home buyers are coming. I picture her opening the linen closet and an avalanche of pillows falling on her, so I clear it out, too. I reorganize my underwear drawer so panties descend in order from passion stoppers to floss, in case she looks.

Day Two

Home improvement projects move from my when-I-get-to-it list to my need-this-done-yesterday list. I get my wallpaper guy to hang the bathroom wallpaper I've had for six months. Next I ricochet around three fabric stores to find the sheer fabric that I've long pictured swagging over the Roman shades in my master bedroom. I snip 20 yards into the fastest window treatments ever made. I get a can of stove black spray paint and touch up the fireplace surrounds where the paint has chipped. The dogs high-tail it outside, and, for once, stay there.

Day Three

I ride herd on my family. "Clean up! The press is coming."

"And don't any of you eat in the kitchen, or cook," I continue. "And whatever you do don't shower! Hear me?"

They vote me off the island.

Day Four

I put out fresh flowers and brew coffee. The reporter arrives. She walks the house. I trip along behind explaining the obvious: Some rooms are done, some partly done and others not even started. I try to fan away the overwhelming smell of new wallpaper, so she doesn't think I did anything special for her. As she sits in the living room jotting notes, she's amazingly tolerant as one of the dogs licks her earlobe. She leaves. I breathe. Then I realize, she never opened one single drawer, cupboard, or closet. But I want this on the record: I was ready in case she did.

You may not have the media coming, maybe just your mother-in-law, company or a potential buyer for your home. But if you have to prepare your house in a hurry, here are some fast and cheap ways:

Make a good impression. Your home's entry should say welcome, not "We're too busy to care," even if that's true. Sweep the porch. Dust the mailbox. Replace the doormat.

Look with an objective eye. Crud builds. Mail, lunch boxes, school projects and dishes pile up. Most of us don't notice the creeping congestion until we can't find our keys because they're under the laundry. Try to see your home with a newcomer's eyes. Then crash-clean and hack away the build up. Rethink any knickknack smaller than your head.

Sweat the small stuff. Clean out scum in soap dishes. Wipe fingerprints off switches and doors. Hang clean, nicely folded towels. Fluff pillows. Put toilet lids down. Polish faucets. Wipe out sinks. Empty wastebaskets. Polish counters. Stuff dirty laundry in the washer. Replace burned out bulbs. Turn on lights. Tending to little stuff makes people think you care about big stuff, too.

Paint. It's the fastest way to transform a room. Get that new area rug; add that drapery tieback, change out that light fixture.

Get fresh. Put flowers, apples, goldfish -- in every room. Then move everyone you live with into a hotel.