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 ---->
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.
WHAT is it about a basement that immediately triggers an uneasy feeling that just behind those cardboard boxes lurks a filthy, crazed maniac with grease under his fingernails, wearing a ripped flannel shirt, wranglers and a skully? Is it the creepy, too-small windows that you know you couldn't crawl out of if someone/thing was barreling towards you with over-sized, overly-sharp death weapons? Is it that musty, dusty scent that lingers at nose level regardless of what candle you burn? Is it the bare, concrete walls and floors that have been a stranger to a mop and sponge since you first moved in? Perhaps the bug carcasses scattered strategically around so that no matter where you step there is something to say "eek" about. Or maybe it's those random items left on shelves by previous owners - you know - the paint cans, the varnish, the wooden baseball bat, the yoga mat, bolts of hideous pink fabric ... etc. (For the record, if you are moving and have cleaned EVERY other inch of the house including the cellar, why not just take the bat and the mat? Why leave your child's set of crutches behind? You can't tell me that you didn't throw an inSANE amount of belongings away before the big move. These were the possessions that would have broken the camel's back so-to-speak? Would it have killed you to get rid of your own paint cans? Did you truly believe with all your heart and soul that we would one day need that 8 year old bubble-gum-pink paint to touch up the living room and never be able to find it in stores?? Please. Not that I am salty about it.) Anyway, as I was saying, I hate me a basement.
In my old apartment we had The Silence of the Lambs cellar. Broken, stone walls that wound around like a maze, weird things spray painted on them. There were holes in the walls as if the Kool Aid guy had come blasting through. It was a splendid place for a washer and dryer. I begged Gregg to do the laundry almost always. This was the "centipede apartment". I was horrified enough seeing them in my super clean dwelling - I certainly did not need to see them slithering all over the cement walls. Shiver. Vomit. Gross.
Growing up I wasn't really petrified of my cellar. I didn't prefer it to my bright and cheery bedroom, but I spent some time down there. I was never a scaredy cat and I was always a dare-devil of sorts. However, I do remember a time when my brother put on Thriller and then shut the lights off on me ... I cowered behind the bar until he lit the place up again. Navigating my way upstairs in the dark was out of the question. I closed my eyes figuring that I wouldn't realize how dark it was in the room if my eyes were closed! Pretty smart huh? Ahh shut it, I was only a kid. But I was always more afraid of the possibility that millions of insects could be crawling around than I was of your typical brain-craving zombie in a torn tuxedo. Although, I'll admit that on occasion I did get the feeling that a monster was following behind me as I climbed the stairs to safety... and I ran up those stairs somethin' fierce.
This is all very amusing to me... these things that I fear. Gregg and I are huge fans of Ghost Hunters and we would both love to have access to the amazing "haunted" places that are investigated on the series. I can tell you with sincerity that I believe I would have no problem walking around abandoned mental hospitals, prisons, farm houses, graveyards etc. But when it comes to bug infested basements and spider-ridden attics - I would not be up to the task.
** Please spend a second taking the poll at the top of my page. Just for shits and giggles. Thanks!
... why yes, i am texting, playing with brody and doing this lovely survey
... i do, yes
... cleaning the shower/tub
... to get a powerball ticket
... once
... rhode island
... during high school i wanted to join the Air Force but i am not sure i could handle the authority
... $150
... gregg and his camping trip coming up :)
... on the phone w/cass
... estimate around 40
... yes
... 7 in the ears
... i have my dress fitting
... a few times - i'm not good at "stopping"
... i am a pretty constant updater
... i love them
... disneyworld when i was 14
... peter griffin? homer simpson? hmm i am sure there is ONE but i can't think of it.
... egg-whites
... chiiiiiilllllyyyyy 56 degrees and cloudy - welcome, autumn
... don't i ??
... nothing comes to mind
... please. still have the remains of last weeks cold.
... only RI
... i would truly love to move
... no ... i can't say that i do
... i like the acura mdx's - but i don't really have a dream car
... naturally
... in my freshly painted, obnoxiously large, sea-side, victorian home with new floors, windows, plumbing and electric, sitting on the front porch wrapped up in a blanket, sipping gingerbread coffee and writing.
90. Are you happy with your life? ... i truly am. would i love to be filthy rich? YUP. but other than typical debt stress and pipe dreams - i couldn't be happier.
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. 
