My mother's house. AKA The ranch that I grew up in. There haven't been too many renovations over the years. A few cosmetic changes here and there but nothing earth-shattering. Every now and then it's nice to give a face-lift to a room that is screaming for attention but draped in 'blah'. A couple of years ago Gregg and I painted my parents' living room from a dull "eggshell" to a light mushroomy color on 3 walls and a weird sort of cranberry on the other. It made all the difference in the world. Today's task = paint the paneling in the hallway along with the trim. My mother took the liberty of sanding the paneling and priming the "grooves" yesterday so that this morning I could waltz in and wreck that bitch. (The paneling, not my mom. She's actually a very sweet woman).
I arrived around 10 am - medium Dunkin' Dark iced coffee in hand ... and oddly enough two sandwiches in my pocketbook. Don't judge me. I have to eat every 3 hours or the clouds will fall straight out of the sky. My ipod was set to the "random 80's junk" playlist on a sweet ass shuffle, sneakers on, hair tied back, step stool (naturally) in place, wet rags, brushes, rollers, trays, newspaper, towels, every light turned on, doors and windows open - ready, set ... do it.
I started out strong ... priming can be fun when you don't have to be NEAT. I was sloppin' that stuff on like mad. Slathering, if you will.
Ahhh yes ... it is apparent that I had found my groove here ---->
... and that groove was clearly
George Michael's "Monkey".
I had a moment of smugness when I started putting the color on the walls. "This will be done in no time" I chuckled to myself. Yeah. Keep chuckling, Sheri.
After 2 coats of paint (cutting in and rolling) that wall was looking fierce. And uneven. I shook my fist at it as it dried funny. Rotten joke paint.
But just six and a half short hours later ... the finished product was clearly phenomenal. Well, no it wasn't either but the key thing is that we didn't HATE it. Hey, I didn't pick the color. Truth is you could smear buffalo blood on the wall and it would still look better than paneling. Light or dark, that stuff is for the birds.
Conclusion - paint on the forehead (so cliché - I actually hate myself for having that stereotypical mishap) ... my nails are a hot mess and I feel like a 97 year old woman who just rode a bicycle 64 miles through an ocean of tsunamis.
And I'd do it all again ... D.I.Y. muthaf$&#@!