OMG Who Would Paint 100-year-old Logs Pink?
I’m on my own.
Me and this house. It’s mine and I’m its.
A foreclosure, its right of redemption by its former owners have been extinguished. Hey! Just like my marriage!
Now we’re a couple. Oh-My-God, a couple of what? A divorcee and seven rooms of Do-It-Myself floors/walls/windows/cabinets/paint and trim. I’m counting myself out of plumbing, electrical and foundation work, if I can help it. Some things are just better off un-googled!
Outside of changing a tire I admittedly do not care to know how to fix my truck and pray I don’t ever have to learn. Likewise I hope the same holds true for the latter trifecta. (Update: It didn’t.)
I wander around from room to room. At 1342 square feet, it’s not an overwhelmingly large project. Yeah, right! Who am I kidding? Every room needs something.
I have a good report back from the chimney sweep. The fireplace is in good repair.
I let myself daydream of a snowy December day spent snoozing on the sofa, with a good book and a crackling fire. Bliss! Then reality checks in with news that I need to recover the sofa and buy a screen and fireplace tools. And oh yeah, procure firewood—or a chainsaw.
And excuse me, didn’t someone experiencing a psychotic fit actually paint the cabin walls pink? Like Infant Girl Pastel Pink?
As I heard tell and best I can figure, there was a glut of pink paint laying around back during the Depression. Some G-man knocks on the front door and says, “Want some paint? It’s free.” So the story goes.
Then….“I know, honey,” Aunt Bob grins, “Let’s paint the living room!” The price being right and starved for entertainment, HGTV’s seminal moment dawns and my logs are reborn, radiant in Pale Pepto Bismol.
I decide I should take a stab at it. I like my cozy little nest of a living room. It’s small, parlor-size really, cozy and safe. The fireplace is native stone and will clean up nicely. The mantle isn’t too ornate, but just right to dress up its rustic personality.
I pick up an ornately “carved” resin mirror at TJ Maxx for $30, the full-length kind that you hang on the closet door—just the right size to rest on the mantle, sideways—and I’ve been playing around with it for a few evenings, half-watching the TV at my sister’s place next door.
Thank God it’s my home away from No-Home. Anything to keep me from thinking about all the Big D’s.
The Divorce. Then my Dogs that I desperately miss. Kitties, too, a sub-category.
Horses not so much. Pretty to look at but high maintenance and God knows we spent way more on their shoes than I ever dreamed of spending on mine. Not to mention feed. And hay. And vet bills.
Along with a huge timber frame barn that cost three times as much as any other barn in this freaking backasswards county.
The anger starts to rise up in my throat as I consider the hardship that those three horses created in our lives. Along with always being the perpetual Outsider in this part of the world, despite being born and raised south of the Mason-Dixon.
I always said he’d get rid of me before he got rid of those damn horses. By God I was right!
God is looming large in my head. I start praying that I can deal with this rage.
And another Big D….the self-Doubt.
Do I really think I can finish this place on my own? With no budget—only a dream of a divorce settlement?
He freaking closed our joint bank account, for God’s sake. Miraculously, (thank you, God) the house is paid for. But when are taxes due? OMG, again.
I prime my faux wood mirror and then daub on couple shades of grey-ish brown and taupe. Some older craft paint I had, that goes on thick and gives it sort of a chippy look. I decide I like it.
I had been a cabinetmaker in my 20’s when my boyfriend from back in high school and I did our going-back-to-the-land phase in the Sierras, not far from Yosemite.
Rick started a cabinet shop, and it was a choice between learning to build cabinets or wear a fairly hideous brown polyester shift and pour a whole lotta coffee at the Miner’s Inn in town. Which I did, too, and also enjoyed. Except for when a bus load of high school football players would show up right before closing time and my best friend, Marian and I would be elbow-deep in 5-gallon ice cream tubs, furiously scooping the stuff up and into jade green blenders for shakes.
I never regretted acquiring those skills. Woodworking, as opposed to milkshakes, that is. That was Failed Marriage Numero Uno. I guess I don’t regret that one, in the hazy retrospective of years gone by. Shouldn’t have stayed as long as I did, but got some great memories out of it. More readily recalled than the not-so-nice ones, this far removed.
So. My pink logs. Exactly which DIY option must the divorcee exercise here? Sandblast? I suppose you can rent a sandblaster–don’t they spray nut shells or corn cobs or something?–but what a mess. I’m thinking one false move and you could take out a window.
No way would I ever consider using a wood stripper. The amount of toxic goop it would require and all the checks and crevices to maneuver would be torturous. OK, so that leaves more paint. Can you paint wood back to looking like wood? Why not?
When in doubt, faux it. It’s a better flavor of fudging it.
Paint. It’s cheap and it comes in every imaginable shade. On that note, I study the other, unviolated side of the logs on the back side of the living room.
Holy cow…all the subtle color variations. I count about seven fairly distinct colors. We’ll make this one Trailhead Taupe, that one looks like an Orange Oakstump, maybe Mushroom Gill for the next one, and on. Paint Swatch Author–now there would be a fun job!
I scribble them down, take some pictures and head to Menards.
For $3.95 each, I’ll see how far I can get with their 8-ounce sample containers. As a side note, I later discover that Sherwin Williams has a better deal: For about $7 on sale, you can get your hands on a whole quart. That’s a score!
I Kilz back the Pepto Bismol and assemble my remedial logs-in-a-can repair kit, each with their own chip brush in assorted sizes. Craning my head back and forth around the door jamb to study my virgin, unviolated logs, I start with the predominant colors. Keeping the brush pretty dry, I skip around the length of the log, adding color in long intermittent swaths. After spending several hours on just a few logs, I decide to try and speed up the process, using the same colors here and there on multiple logs. (I don’t have the heart to count, but Aunt Bob’s handiwork saturated the entire room). Wow! I end up with camouflage!
Now the big blobs of color are ready to get dry-brushed and feathered out
Medium and darker browns, a freckle of orange, a tickle of gold. How long does it take to hew (hew?) a log? And I’m complaining about the time? The gouge marks (from an axe?) appear darker than the surrounding wood, along with where the wood has checked and split. I go darker in these areas.
I run around the corner for the hundredth time, studying my muse, then stand back and look at my work. Not damn bad, I think. But I’ve looked at it so long, I dunno. Faux or foe?
Then the mail lady knocks at the door. “Are you Catherine So-and-So,” she asks. “No,” I answer. “Not any more. I go by my maiden name.”
“Wow…are you painting that?”
“That’s amazing,” she says.
“Really, you think so?” I take a tenuous sigh of relief.
Thank you, God. Maybe I can do this.
Sledgehammer Meets Popcorn
The decision to wield the sledgehammer on my popcorn ceilings was at first horrifying.
My sweet little roost had sat unoccupied for a number of years, except for a resident squirrel that enjoyed snacking on window sills. My sister, next door, rarely saw the previous owners visiting the place. When the home inspector I hired was making his rounds, he said more than once, “Yep. Looks like Uncle Bob’s been here,” causing me no end of consternation.
I’d had my eye on the place for a few years and would poke around, looking through the windows when I would come to town. By the time I’d submitted the winning bid on the foreclosure, I innately knew that my marriage was archived somewhere in the Dewey Decimal 900’s section. History. I would be the sole heir to Uncle Bob’s legacy.
I chose a day when my electrician, Nick was here, changing out light fixtures in the bathroom. We had become buddies and I looked forward to his company, here on my one-(wo)man job site. Plunging a 10-lb. iron maul above your head for the first time was for me, rather intimidating. I thought if I knocked myself out, at least he’d be around to call 911. Why not give it a whirl?
I had seen tongue-in-groove ceilings installed in a former home, but I kinda liked the idea of using shiplap. I figured if I screwed something up, at least I wouldn’t have to ruin a board or two un-installing it. Plus, sometimes the tongue-in-groove has to be tweaked to fit, difficult for one person.
The first big whack was scary. After three big whacks, I was totally into it. Settling out of court was a nice idea but relegated to the scrap pile, and this was some darn good therapy! I had the whole sunroom demo’ed and cleaned up in just a few hours.
After quite a bit of research I decided on using an 8” (nominal width, meaning it’s really only 7.125” wide) x 8ft. Eased Edge Pine Shiplap, from Home Depot. This ended up costing about $3.75/sf and comes in packs of six boards, delivered UPS right to my front porch.
I found this to be a high-quality product, and out of the 14 boxes that arrived on my doorstep, there were no rejects. Impressive! I like the not-too-knotty wood look, especially after whitewashing it with some thinned out Sherwin Williams “Creamy” paint, about 5:1 parts water to paint. I knew from my former T&G ceiling that the boards would naturally take on a darker hue over time, so I whitewashed the boards first, and this saved some time (and mess) by not having to work overhead. There was enough of that during the installation.
I was able to rent scaffolding from our local hardware store, which I’ve come to know quite well. They all worry if I miss a day, usually looking for some obscure part. Or another paint brush.
I started at the lower end of the vaulted ceiling and since I ran the boards perpendicular to the ceiling joists, I was spared the odious task of installing joist blocks everywhere. However, I ran into several areas where I needed something to nail to.
I was astounded to find this beast of a framing nailer at Menard’s for $69 bucks. Weighing in at 7 lbs., it’s an upper body workout. And sounds like a shotgun going off. But hey, it can drive a nail just fine, hooked up to the air compressor. Old school, but the price is right.
In the grand scheme of things, I have to say that Home Depot has got it goin’ on. Their 0% store financing for 24 months really helped my cash flow issues. And their super convenient delivery service really helped my back! For $79 I got a truckload of lumber, shiplap and drywall delivered, along with cheerful help hauling it all in. This was a win!
There’s about 5 miles-worth of molding that I’ll tell you about in another post. DIYing it will pay for a great router and some cool bits to go with it!
Bonus! Enough end cuts to do wainscotting
Yes! I built the table and bench. From reclaimed flooring in my former (married) home and turned legs, ala Ebay. Future post!
And yes, I sewed the Roman shades…another post. Eight in all. Hand-stitched the rings on the back while glued to Downton Abbey.
More kudos to Home Depot…..the flooring is their super high quality, almost clear pine—from the lumber rack!
Climbing Out of the Divorce Dumpster…
…Strategies for Survival
The decision to seek counsel with a bunch of strangers isn’t easy.
But once I realized that my set of divorce woes had worn me out—along with my closest family and a few good girlfriends— I knew that I was ready to escape the jail cell I’d put myself in, and make the attempt to see what others were doing to dig their way out of the dump.
Working myself to exhaustion helped me sleep, but was no cure. Reaching for a glass of wine numbed the pain, but the novocaine it provided wore off too soon. I was ready to come up with a strategy and needed a source outside of my own confused thinking to help.
That’s where DivorceCare came in.
You don’t have to go through it alone
Most people will tell you that separation and divorce are the most painful and stressful experiences they’ve ever faced. It’s a confusing time when you feel isolated and have lots of questions about issues you’ve never faced before. DivorceCare groups meet weekly to help you face these challenges and move toward rebuilding your life.
These were words that resonated.
While I had sought private counseling with the demise of my first marriage, my second was a sudden death demise that I hadn’t seen coming. I was in shock.
DivorceCare showed me the baby steps, a map forward. Leaning into my faith did all the rest.
Now gratitude replaces resentment. Forgiveness erases bitterness. I can breathe.
I’m now coming to accept that my spouse and I were not all that compatible as life partners. And I’m grateful that we parted ways, an awareness that can only occur after intense, bone-grinding pain, followed by a tender, but very welcome emerging sense that I had survived the worst of it. (I should add here that the subject of reconciliation is one of the topics that is explored; for all of my particular group, this wasn’t a viable option.)
DivorceCare was an integral part of the healing process. It provided a structure and strategy for survival that I badly needed. I’m not sure if non-believers would get as much out of it as I did, since it is Christian-based therapy with scriptural study as part of the ground floor.
For the most part I found this a comfort. When I was confused about how the Bible views divorce, the counsel and conversation DivorceCare offered brought clarity. And then solace.
Getting to know some of the other dumpster denizens became a huge source of inspiration. While it’s partially true that misery loves company, it’s more accurate to share that I experienced a growing awareness that we humans—men and women, both—are fragile beings.
But our ability to survive our wounds is astonishing. The spine it requires to survive betrayal is awesome to behold, especially the brand that involves “best friends”, as two of my comrades experienced.
Make that a spine of steel, when it means being left with a small child to care for. Or for that matter, when shell-shocked grown children witness the family unravel, just when grandchildren become part of the picture.
Being blindsided is no fun, but at least my train wreck wasn’t a multi-car pile-up with children being triaged everywhere.
It is ugly business. But if it’s possible to survive cancer when your spouse decides to fly the coop, (another amazing case study) surely I can survive my latest uncovered plumbing disaster without falling apart.
These were some real life true grit lessons in courage, every Monday night.
The meetings are facilitated by seasoned (a/k/a divorced) veterans and both of our leaders were great. The first 45 minutes or so are spent watching a video that features field professionals and real folk, travailing the exact same sea of crap you’re sailing in.
It’s a 13-week commitment that focuses on a relevant issue (i.e. Anger, Loneliness, Depression, Financial Survival…fun stuff!) each time. The confab on Forgiveness is not one to miss. This one is the stumbling block that is the repeat engagement lesson many of us have to revisit more than once. Better ≠ Bitter!
It’s a bonus that you can start the group whenever, then rinse and repeat as necessary. I dove in for a couple of rounds and was surprised at the number of younger people that made up the second group. But, as the stats brutally attest, it becomes familiar ground for a whole lot of us.
But the good news is: It’s Survivable!
With macros like these, DivorceCare could become a diet staple…
re·dux
/rēˈdəks,ˈrēˈdəks/
adjective
adjective: redux
- brought back; revived. After her divorce damn near killed her, she decided it was time for a redux.
The Best Pimiento Cheese Like You Ain’t Never Had
Never ever is sugar added, like the sickeningly sweet grocery store deli kind.
(Some would say “Yankee”.)
Or So I Thought.
Pretty sure this version of the southern staple earns its name honest, ‘cause I just made it up! While I haven’t googled the blogosphere to see if there’s anything that smacks of a similar disposition, it’s the first time I’ve ever made this version, so it’s original to me, anyway you chop those chiles.
In love, out-of-love, lost love, puppy love, fool-for-love….pimiento cheese is THE steadfast and unwavering go-to love interest of the edible variety, having served this divorcee oh-so well over, during and through two marriages.
BTW, I was a good wife both times, a truism that would, I think, be ratified if you caught each of the ex’s in a cheery, affable mood. Maybe after a coupla’ drinks.
For sure they would at least affirm that I make a great P.C.
The Original Pimiento Cheese recipe has been disseminated far and wide from the land of cotton where ol’ times there are not forgotten. A notable part of my family’s southern heritage, the simplest Dixie-style version is just a jar of chopped pimientos, some Hellman’s (east of the Mississipi) or Duke’s, and grated cheddar. BORING, but passable if that’s all you have to work with and you’re in bad shape, jonesing for some.
However, and this is a true story, it is in the very recent past that I learned that my sister, The Iconic Pimiento Cheese Master Chef whose heavily copyrighted sacrosanct recipe may never be written down, but only recounted in hushed, worshipful tones, does indeed add a PINCH of sugar to the final mix.
Suffice it to say that I flew out of the powder room, brandishing toilet paper on my heel unawares upon hearing my niece declare to her mother, “Ya know, Mom, that little pinch o’ sugar just puts it right over-the-top.”
Stephenny immediately knew that a gaffe of unrepentant proportion had just altered the family history. My sister’s crimson face was the pudding’s proof!
I just texted her the news of this, the latest breakthrough. (YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO PUBLISH MY RECIPE, was her immediate reply in all caps.)
Yes, it includes a bare pinch of sugar. And don’t leave out the squeeze of lime….but don’t tell HER!
The Best Pimiento Cheese Like You Ain’t Never Had
6 oz. smoked sharp cheddar cheese, grated (I use OLD CROC)
6 oz. sharp cheddar cheese, grated (I use Cracker Barrel. The sharp white cheddar is good also.)
4 oz. chopped pimientos (small jar)
1 lg. Poblano pepper, roasted, peeled and chopped (not as good, but you could use a small can of green chiles)
2 Tbsp. chipotle peppers en adobo
½ tsp. chile powder (I like New Mexico)
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper (or to taste)
3 Tbsp. shallot, minced
2 garlic cloves, minced fine
1 tsp. sugar
¾ cup mayonnaise (I like Hellman’s)
3 Tbsp. sour cream
½ lime, squeezed
I like to use a food processor to both grate the cheese (less labor) and to initially blend the ingredients, holding back half of both the pimientos and Poblano and all of the *shallots. Add all the ingredients, pulsing to blend, then transfer to a bowl to blend the rest of the peppers and the shallots. The flavor will intensify over several hours.
*As Chef Paulo Kautz would say in severe Austrian tones, “You must use a Very Sharp Knife to chop the shallots. When is the last time you sharpened your knife??!!”