My grandmother built this house round about 1960. She had beautiful #1 hardwood floors put in. After a time, she decided they weren’t worth the effort to maintain (she was under the illusion you had to buff and wax them on the weekly) and had them covered up with some truly horrendous mustard colored carpeting. When she died in 2008, my first priority was getting that God awful carpet ripped up. A friend helped me with the biggest part, and I was tasked with pulling up all the staples and nails and cleaning the wood from all the bits of carpet cushioning before putting down some nice area rugs. This was a JOB. I did it all with a claw hammer and my trusty needle nose pliers. I love needle nose pliers. Some staples came up easily, some I had to really fight with. And a very small number got left forever because they weren’t coming out, no way, no how. And once that was completed I went over it with a paint scraper, then some sort of cleaning agent, THEN the floor polish. Three bedrooms and the hallway is what I slaved over. I had to get done before my furniture was delivered so I worked way into the night through the week and every moment those two weekends to get finished in time. And it seems like I had to get my library painted too. And the walls had to dry. I had fans…
I have a confession. I used to silently judge these women that would come into Co-op and not know anything about killing weeds or, conversely, growing grass. They would ask me to put their $10 one gallon sprayer together before they left. “My husband always did this,” they would explain, sometimes glancing a little forlornly at their empty wedding ring finger. I would try (and often fail, I’m sure) to avoid rolling my eyes. I would instruct them on how much herbicide to mix, frequently using my ever-present mountain dew can as a prop. (I also did this for the men, because 100% of people carry the misconception that the more weed killer you use, the better. So wrong. So, so wrong.) Anyway, I haven’t mixed up or sprayed herbicide in ages and found both my sprayers gommed up because the last time they were used they didn’t get cleaned out. I was not the last one to use them, tyvm. So I had to prance in Co-op yesterday and buy a new one. I was on a cake delivery, anyway. I got my new Chapin sprayer out of the box this morning to use and was instantly assaulted by memories of the dozens I assembled for ladies. I had almost forgotten what a joy it is to spray herbicide. I felt like the Terminator. I hope that every woman I ever helped felt just a little bit more…