This is so, so gross. Yes, that is blue and green shag carpeting. That light brown is not floor. It is dust from the padding.
No. Apparently I needed to rip up more carpet. Rufus started that task for me a while back.
Some homeowners might think that it is preferable not to have a small furry assistant. I think it is preferable not to listen to my small furry assistant repeatedly hurling himself at the basement door.
So I got out the gloves, the prybar, and the needle-nosed pliers. At 9 o'clock on a Friday night, because that's the kind of homeowner I am.
The outlook seemed good when I started. Not excellent, but good. Workable.
The second step was not as good. The third was not lovely. And then it just got plain disgusting, so disgusting that I got out my boxcutter and cut the carpet so I wouldn't have to deal with the rest of it. I cleaned up what I could so it would be safe to use the stairs.
And then I got some soapy water and a brush. That seemed to help the situation a bit, if only in my mind.
If I were to do this again, I would start at the bottom of the stairs. That would have given me a solid, safe, tack-bar free work area as I moved up the stairs. But this is how we learn.
I'm just...ugh. Why would people do this to perfectly good hardwood?
More to the point, after my experience in the bedroom, why did I think it would be better? Well, because the landing looked better.
What it really does (I hope) is force the issue, so that I say no, I cannot live with these stairs. An entire bedroom ready except for floor-finishing and molding, I can live with, because I have another bedroom to live in. But now the dishevelment is in a space I use and see every day, and this should bring it to the level of crisis occupied by water heaters, faucets, and lack of electricity.
Why do I wait? Fear. That's the easy question.
The hard question is, fear of what? The worst has happened. What I feared has come about. And I'm still here.
I lost my job. I didn't lose my house.
I lost my grip for a while, but I got it back, and every day I am stronger.
So what am I afraid of? There's nothing to be afraid of. It's all happened.
So I stood there at 11 o'clock Friday night (1 tough gal, 5 stairs and clean-up = 2 hours, make a note of it) and resolved to finally call the floor-fixing people. As bad as the stairs look right now, the change is that I can see how they will look -- how they could look -- when they are finished. I can see their potential.