About midnight last night, my trek up the stairs only got me halfway. I looked at my little picture ledge and thought, "Hmmm...I bet I could rip this up tonight."
(The carpet, not the actual ledge.)
Armed with a crowbar, a ridiculously long screwdriver, and a pair of Pampered Chef scissors, I went to town. And an hour later, I was done and totally excited.
However, my husband was not that thrilled. He didn't say much, but the glare with a mouth full of Crest said it all. I knew what he was thinking.
I'm on course to become my mother.
She's been known to tear down one wall and put up another in one day. All while I was at school. There were times I'd come home and there would be entire rooms in different colors than they were 8 hours earlier. She and my aunt put on a roof to our old house, and she once installed a fireplace and chimney in an afternoon.
So, in other words, my mom is pretty much Bob Vila with a bra. But I'm okay with that. Especially now.
So, this morning, I headed upstairs with a cup of coffee with thoughts of taking a shower and getting dressed, when I got distracted again. You see, the real thought I've been having for a few years now was tearing out the carpet in the hallway upstairs. I started last year, but stopped before I could get any real work done. I put the carpet back where I had pulled it, and left it for another day.
Today was that day.
Before I started, I called my mom to ask her what the best way was to break it to my husband that I had done home improvement tasks while he was gone. She just laughed. And had some good ideas. I hung up with her and started sweating.
It is HARD work pulling up carpet and padding - even if the space is only 3x8 feet. It's still a heck of a lot of staples.
The floors are in okay condition. Some parts are better than others, but I love that. It's got real character...like you can see where the old spindles for a banister were. Husband will hate it. I love it.
We hit Home Depot about noon where I picked up wood floor cleaner and some room transitioners (that's their real name - I called them "the things that you put between rooms with different kinds of flooring"). I was done by 1:30.
And when he gets home, he will see the pile of old carpeting on the porch and the band aid on my finger (I was on the wrong end of a crow bar), and start swearing and complaining. It happens. I know it. I do it anyway.
Mom should be proud. And as I told her this morning, it's not like I was doing the living room - but that's only because I can't move the piano by myself.
Anyone want to come by and help me move a piano?