What do I mean? I mean, the people who owned this house before Naomi's parents bought it put in plaid carpet. It's not just a little patch of plaid either--oh no. It covers a giant room, and I do mean giant, which we affectionately call the plaid room. Her mom swore to replace the carpet, but it just never happened.
When you first walk in and see the room, you can't decide whether to be amused or horrified, and then it grows on you like a parasite sucking away your aesthetic tastes. This carpet is something of a legend; it looks as if Scotland drank a bit too much whiskey and vomited onto the floor, creating plaid worthy of a kilt. After returning, I walked onto the horrendous plaid carpet, did a few front rolls, and I was surprised at how comfortable they were. I think the tackiness of the pattern gives it a little extra cushion.
Naomi and I have done a lot on this plaid carpet: played music, filmed a video, hosted a plaid party, practiced Aikido, and even unicycled on it (okay, Naomi unicycled, I only succeeded in falling). Strangely, at this point I kind of like the plaid, because in my mind it is equated with play. It acts as a safe zone where you can do stupid activities without being judged (and trust me, the Plaid Room has seen its share of stupidity) because the people who decided to install the carpet will always look dumber than you.
Exhibit A: The Plaid Party.
Love the plaid carpet or hate it? Let me know.
Back in Plaid,