The Love of Clean Carpet is the Root of all Evil

I guess I had it coming. Who did I think I was? A new dishwasher AND professional carpet cleaning? IN THE SAME WEEK? No one's entitled to that kind of happiness. Yeah, I was asking, maybe even begging for it.

There was no question that it had to be done. In eighteen short months, my children had managed to turn our beautiful new berber carpet into a Jackson Pollock masterpiece of muddy shoe stains, dried milk trails, and jelly hand smears. My own attempts at cleaning the carpet only made things worse- soapy water stains on top of the existing dribbles and splotches. It was definitely time to call in the professionals.

Ever the bargain hunter, I spent a good few weeks gathering referrals from friends, calling carpet cleaning companies, asking for quotes, passing out after hearing the quotes, calling more companies, more passing out and crying until I finally settled on South Coast Chem Dry. By no means my cheapest option, this decision was based solely on Danielle's very convincing testimonial, a friend who is also raising a budding young carpet artist.

So a week from yesterday, Mr. Chem Dry came. He CAME, he WASHED, he CONQUERED. That David Copperfield of carpet cleaning made every last one of those horrendous stains magically disappear. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was so beautiful, so magnificent. We had new wall-to-wall carpet all over again! I couldn't stop smiling. I was tingling with joy. I wanted to shout from my rooftop, "Life is good, isn't it world?" I felt love for my enemies and compassion for the less fortunate. In that moment, I was sure my clean carpets had ended world hunger, cured all diseases, and brought about world peace. All was finally right in the universe.

Never mind that for the next two days my children found me almost unbearable to live with. I was like a museum security guard protecting an ancient relic. Gone were their carefree days of sneaking into the toy room with sippy cups and graham crackers. Their mother had been replaced by a broken record of rebukes. "Oh no, you don't! Off the carpet! Get back here with that! Sit down at the table!" But I didn't care what they thought of me. I was still high on carpet cleaning fumes. I walked around the house all day, wandering from one carpeted room to the next. I just kept staring at it and smiling, like it was a newborn baby. I couldn't wait for Honk to return from his four-day business trip so he could see what I had made happen, what beauty I had restored to our home. Surely this would confirm my position as Favorite Wife Ever.

And return, he did. Exactly two days later, we heard his car pull up and watched him walk across the grass to the front porch. Our boy had come home to us. He opened the front door and walked into the living room where we greeted him with a flood of hugs and kisses. Then after we'd shared the week's events and highlights, I giddily showed him what he had yet to notice. No, he didn't beat his chest or cry tears of joy, but I knew from the look on his face that he was more than pleased. Like me, he had given up hope that this type of clean was ever possible again. Realizing we'd been given a second chance, we renewed vows to eachother and to the carpet. "I promise not to wear my shoes on the carpet anymore." "I promise not to eat on the couch or leave drinks on the table where they might spill." Filled with new optimism, we were both committed to the cause.

And it was right about then that Honk asked, "Hey, what are all THESE spots?" My legs couldn't move fast enough to see what he was talking about. Sure enough, there was a fresh trail of dark brown marks all the way from the living room to the tiled entryway. My stomach lurched up into my throat and I gasped in horror, "Oh no! Nooooooo! GET OFF OF MY CARPET!!!" Honk practically flew from the couch to the tile. He quickly checked the bottom of his shoes and what I saw shattered my heart into a million pieces. He opened the front door where an identical trail was mapped from the porch to the grass. I never actually cried, but I believe the moaning was far worse. I couldn't move. I was frozen. I kept my hands pressed up tightly against the sides of my head so it wouldn't explode.

Honk didn't waste any time. He dropped his shoes outside and raced for the cleaning supplies. Poor guy had been home all of five minutes and was down on the floor scrubbing cat poop out of the carpet. I joined him in the cleaning, my glaring eyes nearly burning holes in his forehead. Finally, he looked up at me like an abandoned puppy and quietly said, "Welcome home?"

One week later, I think I've finally forgiven Honk for the carpet debacle. And yes, I KNOW it was not even his fault, a completely unintentional disaster that he had absolutely no control over. I said I forgave him, didn't I? Forgiven, but maybe not totally forgotten. It does seem to creep up at the most unforseen moments. A couple days ago I left a note on the counter that read,

"Honk,
Went with kiddos to market. Be back WAY before the crap on our newly-cleaned carpet disappears.
Love you, Wifie"

Some things take time. Lucky for me, I've got a good man who loves me, inspite of me. He's not going anywhere- just like that crap on our newly-cleaned carpet.



**This post is dedicated to Sarah Byrne, our good friend's twenty-year-old cat who passed away this week. She lived a long, loving life and was way too classy of a broad to do what I've just described here. You'll be missed, Sarah.