Tag: house painting

What price frugality?

I blame the following on heat stroke. And pain.

(Read in the tone of drained awfulness.)

One hour, two hours, three hours, four –

I really don’t want to do any more.

We scrape and we wash and we prime and we paint.

We dangle from scaffolding until we are faint.

Tibbit is hungry, Hamish is bored.

The house is still green in one corner more.

The garage lurks out back, all peeling and grim.

I think we’ll be painting when the stars go dim.

Twenty thousand dollars seemed a lot to pay.

Maybe, we said, there’s a more economical way?

Scaffolding, scrapers, and gallons of tint –

Up to the soffits and bump outs we went.

Lamentations and griping, match blisters and pain.

If only, I think darkly, we’d have days of rain.

(Sigh.)

Would we do it all over? When the end is so near?

Oh God we sure would.

Sweat equity wins out when the cost is so high.

We’d do it again, and ask ourselves whyyyyyy???

July 12, 2016
The interview ends with a worm.

We’re here with Hamish the Corgi and Miss Tibbit-the-useless-little-black-dog. It’s painting season again here at the WideEyedDomicile. The Bosses are up on the scaffolding along the northwest side this season, scraping and painting yet another architectural complexity.

We asked Miss Tibbit what she thinks of the house painting activity.

“Well,” she looked either thoughtful or vacant, it isn’t easy to tell, “it is really pretty boring. We just sit around in the yard. There’s not much to do.”

Hamish looked sideways at her. “That’s a negative attitude.” Tibbit snorted. “Look at them up there,” Hamish waved his nose upward, “they stay in one place for hours at a time and I can keep my eye on them.”

“Whatever,” Miss Tibbit seemed doubtful. She sniffed the air and “Hey, there’s a worm over there!” She spun on her hind legs and took off.

“What??” Hamish ran after her.

Another day, more of the house painted. We’ll check back in with the WideEyedHousehold next week.

June 17, 2016
High places

Miss Tibbit and I stood in the rain eating black raspberries off the canes in the backyard. I reached high, Miss Tibbit plucked the low ones with her front nibble teeth. Their pure, rain-washed fruitiness is soothing my stomach after a feast of lamb vindaloo and chicken xacuti, samosas and deep-fried paneer at the Taj Grill. I can hear the rain pinging on the steel frame of the scaffolding. We should be painting. Monsoon-like rains and passing lightening storms make it impossible.

Lion Stout from Sri Lanka at the Taj Grill. The WideEyedSpouse said it was heavy on the mocha flavors.

The scaffolding arrived a week ago on a big rig. It traveled across country for 22 days to get here. Twenty feet of bright yellow painted tubular steel and mini-girders. So cheery. So horrifyingly high. From July 2 to July 5 we spent the daylight hours perched on Level 1 (6 feet), Level 2 (12 feet), Level 3 (18 feet) scraping, washing, priming. The husband of each neighboring household came to see. From my aerie they all looked the same: wide legged stance, arms crossed over the chest, head tilted back, mouth a little open. I think the WideEyedHousehold looks a little otherworldly up there with gangling arms and legs working on the small 2 by 6 feet platform – reaching out, over, up, to deal with the house’s overhanding soffit and decorative exposed rafters. The high roof and architectural details looked so cool (“badass” the Spouse says) when we bought the place. I didn’t think about spending days and days with them.

The aerie in position.

One set of neighbors had a party over the weekend. From my post up high I could smell the bbq, drinks, and perfume. The women’s dresses were a swirl of color. Kids laughed and played. The men kept easing around the corner of their house to peek at the scaffolding. I painted on primer during their cocktails. I painted through their dinner. I painted as they sat, idling with wine into the summer evening.

WEF, up high – and the ground crew.

The WideEyedSpouse and I spelled each other in the high places. I don’t know what he thought about up there, but I started jealously guarding my time on Level 3. The breeze was nice. Voices faded to murmurs and traffic on the nearby Scajaquada Expressway rumbled at a deeper tone. Squirrels and birds chirping and chittering in the trees were my companions. I became nothing but arms attached to a paint scraper, or arms with a paint brush instead of a hand.

“I can’t believe you are painting your own house,” WideEyedNeighborP said. “What else are we going to do all summer?” I said, “Sit around on the patio and drink?” I think when we are done I’ll install the scaffolding among the back yard maple trees. My own industrial tree-house. It’s possible I’m becoming weird.

July 7, 2015
Old House | Freedom Thief

We had freedom once. We hiked. We rode mountain bikes. We visited antique shops and flea markets, clutching take-out lattes. We read the whole Sunday paper to fill the time before brunch.

But our lives seemed empty. So we bought a house and fixed up it. Then we moved. Bought another house and fixed it up. Then we moved, to the biggest, oldest house yet.

It must be painted. I do understand that there are professionals who do these things for you. For buckets of ducats. But the WideEyedSpouse and I sort of want to see what is happening on the house. Get a sense of coming maintenance. And, we want to run the 35 foot boom lift and stare down at the neighborhood from our lofty position.

Yesterday we started.

We scraped. I washed with pre-painting detergent. No, I’m ok, it only burned a little when it dripped down my arms and off my elbows.

We painted. Creamy white. Deepest blue. We painted until 12 minutes after sunset, knowing that rains were coming and hoping for the necessary 1 hour dry time before the deluge. I worried over this and the Spouse told me, “The rain never comes from that direction anyway.”

After one day of painting, the WidedEyedHouse is about 1/20^th done. The torrential spring rains are, as you might expect, lashing against the newly painted walls. The paint is holding steady so far. The members of the WideEyedHousehold are huddled inside, nursing blisters and sore muscles and bruises. Desperately avoiding thoughts of 19 more 10 hour days of scraping and painting in the hot summer sun. Dreaming of lattes and brunches and aimless weekends.

May 31, 2015
Responsibility avoidance, Or, There are two kinds of spurs my friend.

The grass in the back yard is long. Mowing has become critical.

The new back stoop remains unfinished. The parts are in the garage, some assembly required. The new house colors, still undecided. Stripping the old paint, urgent.

But it’s raining. 47 hundredths of an inch today so far in a long slow endless shower. Well now, that’s just too bad. All of the day’s chores were outside chores. Howsoever will I pass the time?

I’ll tell you how, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and a lace knitting project. 178 minutes of men of poor moral character. Italian made cotton Tahki yarn in a peaceable spring leaf green, bamboo needles, and a simple leaf lace scarf pattern. A match made in work avoidance heaven.

I knit three, and watched Blondie shoot Tuco down from the gallows for the second time… “I’ll keep the money and you can have the rope”. Slipped one purlwise, knit two and passed slip stitch over while Tuco caught Blondie in his hotel room… “There are two kinds of spurs my friend. Those that come in by the door, and those that come in by the window.” Slip slip knit while Angel Eyes’ thug Wallace beat the name of the cemetery out of Tuco and the prison camp orchestra played.

40 minutes of the movie to go, Tuco and Blondie are just about the blow the bridge, and I figure I can knit another 20 or 30 rows if I don’t get too caught up in the three way standoff over the grave.

July 19, 2014
Home Renovation Made Possible by the 1970s.

If Looking Glass had never recorded Brandy (my life, my love, and my lady is the seaaaaa), would I have been able rebuild and repair every half fixed house I’ve lived in for the past 15 years?

If the Commodores didn’t make Brick House (She’s a brick-house. Mighty, mighty, just letting it all hang out), could I have boogied my way through edging uncountable ceilings on the top of a high ladder, among the fumes and echoes?

How long could I have endured the paint striper chemical gloves without Carly Simon’s You’re So Vain (I bet you thought this color was pret-ty, pret-ty, you’re so tacky…)?

The WideEyedSpouse hears the ocean rumbling and smells suntan lotion when we stream Big Joe Henry’s 1970s heavy show on New Jersey 101.5 or the itunes Best of the 1970s. The Spouse grew up in Ocean City, roasting in the summer sun, listening to pop music on transistor radios. Me? I hear sanders and smell sawdust because I grew up in old houses. I failed to learn from my youth and I still live in them. And for whatever reason, nothing I can articulate, Saturdays, and the 70s music are for home renovation.

The roller rolls better to Poppa Was a Rolling Stone. The Midnight Train to Georgia makes me edge cleaner. The BeeGees make me sand harder, Fleetwood Mac sends me screaming from the room for a coffee break. And always, without fail, as soon as my hands are too junked up to touch the tech, the interminable ten hour (ok, minute) American Pie song comes on. “Long long time ago…” Bathroom break.

Painting to the 80s doesn’t work. Sanding to the 90s, no good. Millennial music? Great in the car but it just doesn’t have that steady 70s underthrum that keeps a person working, when she’d really rather be lounging around eating snacks and reading novels.

The WideEyedSpouse and I finished a painting project last weekend. A urine-y yellow upstairs foyers is now a glowing Rock Candy (Sherwin Williams #6231) grey. We edged three layers of paint around nine doors and one ceiling. We rolled the tiny flat spaces between walls. We boogied through it with help of the 70s and my magic painter’s pants. And maybe some beer.

October 17, 2013