Mark and I made the decision to renovate our kitchen last summer. It was like pulling on a hanging thread of a sweater. You think if you give the thread a quick yank it will come out but after you pull a few times you realize that the sweater is unraveling and you aren’t sure when to stop. If you keep going will there be more damage or will it resolve itself. So you keep pulling.
That is somewhat like how the work at our house began by yanking out the kitchen, the unraveling started. We moved on to the dining room and then the front room. I would like to state – everything and everyone worked well together. I was complimented on how organized it was and everyone showed up when they were scheduled. Did I mention the painter?
When the new kitchen island was put in I was excited. It was almost twice the size as the old one and truly a work of art. There was only one thing that had to be fixed – the color of the wall that had been painted the same color as the rest of the kitchen. It sits between the kitchen and the dining room and it had to be perfect. As we all know, perfection takes a while to accomplish.
After lengthy discussions about possible color options, to speed up the process, the painter went to the paint store and bought back 17 books of color charts. I’m sure he was thinking to himself, I would pick a color, any color, so he could finish this job and move on. From the color charts, I selected the perfect shade. Once it was on the wall, it made the space look extremely blah. Not quite the effect I was going for.
Back to the drawing board. The painter with extreme patience went to a different paint shop for more color options. I selected another beautiful color, he gladly painted the wall. I came home and my immediate reaction was – where did this color come from? He reminded me, while speaking ve-r-r-ry slowly that I had selected it, only this morning. I said, oh, I didn’t realize it was brrrr-o-wwwwn. I can speak slowly too.
I assured him I would go out the next day and look for the right color. I will skip the next three conversations and wall color changes because I must protect the innocent and guilty alike.
I am sure the painter was as tired as I was with the number of changes that had taken place thus far. Undeterred, I kept up my search for the perfect color. I eventually found it and rather than call the painter, I decided to paint the wall myself. By now, I had seen him do this small piece of wall many times. How hard could it be?
I had all the tools I needed and so painted the wall. The end product wasn’t quite what I was looking for but I now had the right color but too shiny. I returned to the shop, they knew me by name and I’m sure were taking bets on the color I would get this time. I ignored the sniggering and purchased my paint with my head held high.
While I was in this elevated space, I decided to call the painter and let him know I now had the correct color and all our problems were over. All he had to do was return to the house and do one last cover-up and our painting nightmares were over. I coaxed a reluctant agreement from him and I’m pretty sure I heard a stifled scream as he hung up the phone but it could have been background noise.
He came to the house and immediately asked who had butchered the wall. I was indignant but didn’t want to get into an argument with the man who would make my wall beautiful, so I said, ‘I painted it.’ He said, ‘Ma’am, this is a job for professionals.” Swallowing my response, I left him to correct the tragedy that had become my island wall.
I am pleased to say, the wall is beautiful and the perfect balance between the kitchen and dining room. I would like to add that the accent wall in my front room was a breeze. All I will admit is that it was painted only nine times by the same long-suffering painter.
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