The carpeting expert at the Home Depot tried his best to explain to me why industrial grade pile was not going to help me sell my house. He was sure my house was nicely appointed (that made my friend chuckle) and the carpet should be at least as nice as my carefully selected decor. My favorite piece of furniture is a beat up old console table I found on a sidewalk in Mexico City years ago, and my upstairs carpeting is and promises to always be, as long as Manny the blind puggle is around, an abstract expanse of performance art, splashed with random patches of dog pee. If I could find enough square footage of filthy remnants from a kennel I would not be wasting time at Home Depot looking for a good price on their worst crap, but alas, the kennel thing didn't pan out.
Needless to say my head was spinning once I got a ball park figure based on the lowest grade of carpet the Home Depot expert would agree to sell me. I grabbed a bunch of samples in different shades and told him I was going home to obsess; he suggested I just go home and crack open a bottle of wine. Maybe that would have the same effect on me as one of those distorted three way mirrors in clothing stores, the ones that make boobs sit higher and back fat disappear and asses look narrow and shapely. Maybe sand dune would start to have some appeal, even though there's not a beach in sight.
The carpet samples have been sitting on my kitchen counter for three days now. It's really the last thing I need to do before I put the house on the market, but I can't bring myself to pull the trigger. I've grown accustomed to the pee stains; when I'm bored in the middle of the night, I gaze at the splotches and give myself a Rorschach test, assess my psychological mettle. The amoeba like stain at the foot of my bed reminds me of a Latin lover begging me to tell him what else he can do to please me. Hmm. I wonder what that means. I've even grown accustomed to the eighteen year old burn mark from the day I managed to knock a hot iron over, although the Rorschach test on that one is pretty pointless -- the stain just reminds me of the bottom of an iron. Crazy all the same though, the idea of me ironing!
For a change of pace yesterday, Manny decided to pee on the wood floor downstairs. At least he chose the spot where there is already water damage from the leaking skylight, so no harm, no foul. Psychological testing again seemed pointless; all I saw was a river of pee. But then I thought maybe there was a message in there somewhere, something like go ahead, it's all right if you replace the old carpet, I'll just pee down here when I need some attention.
It's time. Not just because I need to close the door on the bad memories (heck, I only ironed that one time). But because it's as good a time as any to pour myself a glass of wine and pull the old rugs out from under myself, before somebody else does it.
The carpet samples have been sitting on my kitchen counter for three days now. It's really the last thing I need to do before I put the house on the market, but I can't bring myself to pull the trigger. I've grown accustomed to the pee stains; when I'm bored in the middle of the night, I gaze at the splotches and give myself a Rorschach test, assess my psychological mettle. The amoeba like stain at the foot of my bed reminds me of a Latin lover begging me to tell him what else he can do to please me. Hmm. I wonder what that means. I've even grown accustomed to the eighteen year old burn mark from the day I managed to knock a hot iron over, although the Rorschach test on that one is pretty pointless -- the stain just reminds me of the bottom of an iron. Crazy all the same though, the idea of me ironing!
For a change of pace yesterday, Manny decided to pee on the wood floor downstairs. At least he chose the spot where there is already water damage from the leaking skylight, so no harm, no foul. Psychological testing again seemed pointless; all I saw was a river of pee. But then I thought maybe there was a message in there somewhere, something like go ahead, it's all right if you replace the old carpet, I'll just pee down here when I need some attention.
It's time. Not just because I need to close the door on the bad memories (heck, I only ironed that one time). But because it's as good a time as any to pour myself a glass of wine and pull the old rugs out from under myself, before somebody else does it.
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