girl at large

Home Fires

In a stunning reversal, I like my house and hate my husband. Ok, so that's too strong, but I'm cranky this morning. And we're not seeing eye to eye. But, like all our marital storms, this one will pass.

What will stay, I hope, is my new satisfaction with the house. The painting continues, one room at time, through the first floor. We literally have just one painter working in the house each day, the painting company is fitting us in between other jobs. Which wouldn't be that unusual except that typically they run a crew for this amount of work---walls, ceiling, then sanding, priming and two-coating all that trim. The playroom ceiling had to be stripped of falling ancient wallpaper and practically replastered. Davis, whom I have yet to meet in person, arrives after we leave for work and leaves before we return. Our very own magical painter elf. This is very our style of working with the trades---not needing a schedule or having a deadlin has its cost benefits. And makes the drive home from work more exciting; oh the anticipation!

Adding to the feeling of CLEAN the paint has given the house, the three new light fixtures have changed my outlook on everything. Literally. I can now see just exactly how filthy, grungy, and dark the house was. Why did we wait so long? Oh right, because we needed a shower, and garage doors, and our own bedroom.

Paulie did put up all three lights. And installed dimmers. Ok, truce.

 

 

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Retro Christmas

“I want a pogo stick and a scooter and a black and red watch” -Viv to Santa

Monumental Decisions

I was not made for home ownership. I prefer to move every two years or so, changing my view of the town I live in, if not the town itself, downgrading or upgrading as needed. Despite my love of architecture and design, I have never wanted to OWN architecture. Like my love of hotels, I prefer both a less permanent and more luxurious arrangement.

 

Paulie was born to own. He was literally born two blocks from where he is currently snoring. In our marital compromise, and also in a new-baby, got kicked-out-of-our-rental haze, we bought. We got lucky; in winter and the bottom of the market, we scored a solid structure in the neighborhood we love and now today could no longer afford. (Don't get me started on the unfairness of the real estate market and how young families, seniors and modest income folks are getting priced out of our village because the recent condo developments and duplex conversion programs favor the wealthy).

 

We did not purchase, as I originally suggested, two adjacent one-bedroom his-and-hers modern apartments. We got a classic bungalow instead, complete with crumbling plaster walls, ancient plumbing, and...original woodwork.

 

In the four and half years since, I have tossed and turned and wrung my hands about one particularly thorny issue. An issue many homeowners, HGTV watchers and renovators have passionately debated for decades.There are sides.There are camps. There are blogs and articles and curses if you do, curses if you don't. Only politics is currently more divided.

 

To paint the woodwork or not paint the woodwork?

 

Finally, I decided. I chose a camp. I chose Paint. The picture rail, door frames and baseboards all got painted a smooth, clean and lovely off-white. The wood doors, windows, and dining room arch columns will remain unpainted (and filthy until the budget and time allows for stripping and refinishing).

 

And you know what? No one cared. No woodwork police arrived. Because it's my house, and god damn I can do what I want. Which is exactly what I said to myself when the property tax bill came last week, interestingly just moments before I said screw it and called the painter.

 

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