Oh, how I want hardwoods. The puppy has peed the carpet beyond repair, and even if I steam clean twice a week, which is excessive, there are still big pee stains. I want the feel of hardwood under my feet. I want it bad. I take my shoes off at work, where there are hardwoods, just to be able to enjoy the texture under my feet.
I like being able to mop the whole house and make it smell like oranges or pine trees or whatever. I like to put oil down and make it shiny and wonderful. I like the clean look of it all, even when it's dirty.
We were going to get hardwoods before Heroin Crisis 2007 lead to this stint of unemployment. Maybe I should use my credit and get hardwoods. It would please me so...and maybe I'd feel like we'd moved past something, moved into a new era of hardwood magic.
I love the way that simple changes to our home can make things so much better, like when I bought curtains and rods for the back door after we had the peeping tom or when I fixed up the art room upstairs. I know that a big change like hardwood floors could change the entire head space. Maybe I should put an ad on Craigslist...I need someone who can install hardwoods and repair idiot hole-punches in the wall. Maybe just maybe.
I've learned from the wisdom of a woman who attends our meetings. She talks about the wonderful screened-in porch she's built for herself and her fabulous red leather couch. I don't have to let myself be held hostage by my husband's addiction. I can have hardwood floors because I have good credit and I want them. I don't have to save my money to spend on his shit, as his shit is his shit.