The part of the story I think my mom omitted, though, was that the nurse also handed her a dozen 4 x 4 swatches of carpet on one of those silver key ring thingies and added, “she’ll be needing this.”
Because apparently I’m supposed to care about carpet, since my husband tried to buy some but was summarily dismissed by an incredulous salesman who was hesitant to permit this transaction without my personal blessing.
I’m actually not in the least bit offended by the implied assumption that I care about carpet simply because I have a vagina. I’m sure lots of vagina-havers totally care about carpet, and many penis-havers do as well.
Awareness of good carpet knows no sex or gender. I’m just saying for the record that I personally give no fucks about carpet.
The same goes for all elements of interior design, come to think of it. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the way nice spaces look. I’m always in awe of my friends with an artistic flare for a cool backsplash or a nifty faucet.
Again, it’s just that I personally give no fucks that every other light fixture in my house looks like a crystal nipple and we keep an open can of recycling on the floor of our linen closet and half our furniture came with the house and our dining room table/chairs are from a restaurant that closed and probably still have strangers’ gum underneath them.
When it comes to home improvements, here are my criteria: whatever it is should work for its assigned purpose as long as possible, require as little maintenance as possible, not be outrageously expensive, and simply appear one day without my having done anything to assist in its apparition.
Like really, dassit. I’m just glad someone else is thinking about carpet. I’m not about to look that gift horse in the mouth by weighing in with preferences. I learned this from my parents, who just last year replaced some 40 year-old curtains in their apartment.
I am not kidding when I tell you that if I never see a paint sample again, it will be 100% too soon.