As you know, my most excellent husband decided it would be good for me to have my own creative space. Someplace to write, and knit, and drink tea, and have brilliant thoughts.
“Wonderful!” says I, and we commence dramatic upheaval.
Upstairs goes downstairs. Downstairs comes upstairs. Once the furniture is in place in my swank new digs, I realize the carpet is pretty shabby. And nasty. And I figure, hey, we have hardwood under there (as evidenced by my horrible cats who pull at the edges). Let’s just rip up the carpet! Sweet! I never did like that carpet anyway.
So we begin cutting up the carpet. And rolling it back. The floor looks a little…iffy…but it’s a 100+ year-old house, it’s going to have issues. My dude gets it all pulled up and
WHAT THE DEAR SWEET JESUS IS THAT.
You know how some people maybe aren’t great at stuff? And how they should just own up to that fact, and maybe not do things they don’t know how to do? Yeahhh. The previous owners of our house took it upon themselves to GLUE carpet down, on what was at some point beautiful hardwood. That picture? Totally not the worst of it. I spared you. You’re welcome.
Unspeakable horrors have occurred on this floor. I daren’t speak of it, but I’m pretty sure it’s haunted.
Tomorrow: laminate-flooring shopping, then attempted installation. Pray for our fingers.
sniderwriter 