paint

I have to be honest, until about 2 weeks ago I was a wall-painting-virgin. Growing up, when my parents would paint a room in the house I would "help" but was never really allowed to touch a brush or a roller. Either they knew better than to put paint in the hand of the clumsy adolescent that I was, or they were going with the "I'd rather do it myself so I know it gets done right/how I want it even if that means declining help" attitude (which I seem at times to have adopted as an adult). More likely a combination of the both. Either way, until earlier this month I had done little more than watch my parents paint. Maybe I refilled trays or hammered the lids back on but was never given any sort of responsibility that could cause potential damage or was really very useful.

When I was house hunting, my realtor (aka brother), always finding the possibilities and potential in a house would tell me not to get distracted by the paint on the walls (good or bad) because paint is such a simple thing to change. Not so much, brotha'. I hate painting. Er, I hate the process. Love the outcome. It is amazing how much of a transformation paint can bring to a home. It gives it life, personality, warmth. I think I can handle a few hours of tedious work if I remember how much I'll love the outcome. So far, the living/dining room area is done.

The before. Vast walls of whiteness.

The choices. Someone sure had my number when they decided to market these little paint samples. Indecisiveness rejoice.

Dad, Melissa, and I spent a long Monday night painting (thank you!). Clearly, I did some work and then got bossy pointing out the mistakes (my need for perfection obvsiously not in check at that moment)

The after. Just need to refinish those floors and pull up a couch!