Thank The Gummi Mary, It Wasn't Wall-To-Wall Carpeting

A couple days ago, I mentioned finding a millipede marching across my braided rug, nearly camouflaged by the pattern. I included a photo of that rug, and let slip its true name: The Toenail Rug. I've found the original blog post that revealed the story of The Toenail Rug [along with an even more disturbing (if that's possible) home furnishing]. I'll put a link at the end, but I'm putting The Toenail Rug saga below.

When I bought my $17,000 house in town, it needed a little work. You'd expect that, right, from a $17,000 house? One repair was a new sub-floor. That's the industrial strength plywood that goes down on the floor joists, before you cover it with carpet or wood or tile. In this case, we were planning on carpet. We'd also bumped out the corner of the living room to make a nook for a computer, and were waiting on that to be finished before having the carpet installed. Unfortunately, our carpenter ran his mouth at a bar, and was locked up a few weeks in the county jail. He did great wood work, but his interpersonal skills were not on par with his craftsmanship.

Here we were, with autumn inching into winter, living on a subfloor that had drafty cracks. Luckily, my grandma offered us her braided rug. She was getting a new one. The old braided rug had been in front of Grandma's fireplace ever since I could remember. We didn't care that it had some burned, melted spots from embers jumping out of the fireplace when the screen was open for jabbing at the logs. That's why Grandma had a braided rug. It laid on top of her carpet.

Anyhoo... Farmer H and I were glad to get the braided rug, and Grandma was glad to get rid of it. It covered our entire living room, and stopped the drafts. One night I sat down on the couch, and my socked foot snagged on something sharp on the braided rug. We are not barefoot hillbillies, but I don't wear shoes inside the house. Whatever it was, this thing jabbed all the way through my sock. I asked Farmer H to look and see if maybe a staple or a paper clip was caught in the braided rug.

Farmer H crawled around dutifully at my feet. "Here it is!" He grabbed it and stood up, holding it in the air. Brandishing it like a nerd winning a Technical Lighting award clutching his Oscar. It was a TOENAIL! A big, ragged, man's toenail. My 5'2", humpbacked, little old Grandma could never have cultivated a toenail of such proportions! My uncle from Alaska had been staying with her during the Christmas tree season. They owned a tree farm. It had to be HIS toenail! EEWWW! That toenail made me gag.

When it was time for the carpet installation, Farmer H hung The Toenail Rug over the clothesline in the back yard, and beat it within an inch of its life. He rolled it up and stashed it somewhere for safekeeping. He said it was worth too much to throw away. Scavenger! I know we didn't put it in the basement of the $17,000 house, because it needed a sump pump, and sometimes still took on water during a heavy rain. I hate to think how much that Toenail Rug would have weighed when wet!

Once we built our now-house, and Farmer H finished the basement, The Toenail Rug had a new home. The boys could sit on it to play video games and watch TV.

Here it is yesterday. Don't shame me because my Christmas tree is still up! I have trouble letting go.

There's the electric fireplace, and The Pony's cheap gaming couch, with a couple of fleece throws that I've won by outplaying others at my sister the ex-mayor's wife's Christmas Eve parties.

Here's the Toenail Rug's original tale, back from March 17, 2006, and its horrifying companion piece. Though you've just read about it here, so no need to go there and be subjected to my 13 year old writing style. Meaning it was that long ago, less polished, not that it reads like a 13-year-old wrote it. That might be giving it too much credit!