Carpet–I know not whence this diabolical invention first saw universal fruition, but I rue that day.

The Internet was of little help, spouting the usual assortment of trendy anti-(insert whatever’s popular here) sentiments.  And I, one of these confrontational assholes, would agree.  I hate it, and whoever invented it should spend eternity in a vat of histamine, forever sneezing and itching in anaphylaxis, yet never able to escape the ailment.

Compounding the misery was the result of a whippet’s predilection for misidentification, for so readily does carpet endlessly absorb the liquified proteins of urinary putrification.

And further compounding the problem is a human female’s oversensitivity to olfactorial displeasure.

So it was that I found myself ripping up the carpet in the hallway.  The late whippets, always naughty and leaking, favored this spot as a preferable alternative to the bitter cold of Ohio winters, despite the physical punishments that would ensue from such transgressions.

Another futile attempt at deodorizing the carpet

What I found beneath was sheer horror.  Over the decades, dirt had sifted its way through until a fine layer of soil covered the sub-flooring.  Extensive vacuuming and Lestoil-scrubbing later, the floor appeared to be painted white–at least what the floor cleaner didn’t strip.

Liz scrubbed the floor with baking soda and vinegar, then let it dry until the next weekend.

And so began the hard part.  The hallway, being narrower than the boards were long, required that I had to cut every single piece to fit.  Adding to the complexity was the oddly-shaped linen closet.  Fortunately I had watched enough preparatory YouTube videos that I knew how to hammer segments into connecting, even when wedged around tight corners.

Then there was the problem of the end strips not locking to the floor properly, but a few hammer blows and swear words and emergency runs to the hardware store fixed that problem.  The end result was never in question.

An afternoon was required to dismantle the existing flooring, and 11 hours of straight labor to install the new.  But like all things in life worth having, it wasn’t supposed to be easy–yes, that’s right, philosophical reaffirmations from flooring installations.

Then I had to install new moulding, which was equally as bad as the flooring.  My supply of finishing nails dwindled, and I bought a box at Home Depot.  But the nails lacked the head notch, so my driver continually slipped and punctured the moulding.  A return visit yielded no better alternative, for the associate stared blankly when asked if they stocked another brand of nails.  I made due with what I had.

I estimate this project to have taken 30 hours of work.  It sucked, but I have to admit: it is better than a cesspit corridor.  The kid seems to agree: