There is no such thing as a simple project. Every project you start leads to another, which leads to another, which leads to another, which leads to your eventual collapse.
I’m on the couch now.
It started when the husband, who in 35 years of marriage has never once acknowledged the existence of dirt, asked if I couldn’t do something about the dirty carpet in the family room. This reminded me of when my friend got her dirty carpet clean through services similar to Irvine carpet cleaners and they did a great job so I hear. Perhaps they could contact someone similar to deal with it? So I thought.
We were marveling at the outline of a missing throw rug, the soiled expanse where people stand in front of the television, and a large dark area that bore a striking resemblance to South America, when our son-in-law and youngest daughter said, “Hey! Why don’t we help you rip up the carpeting?”
“Why not?” I foolishly said. “There are lovely hardwoods beneath this ugly rug.”
So while the husband was working over the weekend, the son-in-law and daughter and I ripped up carpeting. We pulled up tack boards, pried nails without heads out of hardwood, moved four 8-foot bookcases, assorted furniture, a solid oak rolltop desk and tangled balls of computer cords that could stretch from here to Jupiter. We applied two Kermit the Frog Band-Aids and wrestled with large carpet strips and padding, rolling them for disposal.
It was good to have the dirty carpet gone. But when your son-in-law says, “Do you want to paint before we move the furniture back?” you know the walls are bad.
Why is it that I am suddenly surrounded by men with an eye for dirt?
This was to be a redo project with a zero-dollar budget. Fortunately, I found an old gallon of neutral paint in the garage. I bought a small sampler of paint in a dark color, determined to tint my own paint, thereby repainting an entire room for only $3.19. Yes! I was about to make renovation history. Somebody Pinterest this!
Ten minutes after applying my cost-saving paint concoction, I was on the way to the hardware store for a gallon of new paint.
After a day of up and down the ladder and crouching in corners, the walls looked good. But the trim needed paint.
More paint. Then, the trim looked good, the walls looked good, the floor looked good, but the space between the trim and the floor didn’t look good. It needed quarter round to bridge the gap.
I could wait for the husband to do it over the weekend, or I could do it myself. DIY is my middle name.
Back to the hardware store for quarter round. And stain.
I got the hang of the compound miter saw and how to miter corners, just as I was doing the last quarter round cut.
So there you have it. One off-hand comment about dirt, a unsolicited offer of kindness, and three days later my fingers are permanently curled, pains are shooting down my neck and my legs are on fire, but the floor looks good. The walls look good. The trim and quarter round look good. The bookshelves look good. The room looks good. The Tylenol looks good—but I’ll be if this couch isn’t looking pretty worn and tattered.