Centre Life

Project turns frustration to gratitude

Chris Arbutina

Day 458 and counting. Welcome to the home remodeling project that just won't end.

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It started when my husband and I decided to overhaul our 1950s ranch. When I explained to my mom the scope of our plans — new roof, new windows, an exterior facelift, two bathroom redos, gutting the master bedroom and den to the studs, and adding a sun porch off of the dining room — she helpfully suggested we just tear the place down and start over.

Gee, thanks, mom.

But she might have been on to something. A couple of contractors heard us out, did a walk-around of our property, and never came back.

Two that stuck around and did the job were Gary and Wade. This father-and-son duo were my new best friends throughout most of 2008.

They did a wonderful job. Right before Thanksgiving, after nearly eight months, they wrapped things up. Which is when our home work began.

I’d read plenty of articles lauding sweat equity. I’d seen those magazine spreads showcasing the dramatic successes of do-it-yourselfers. I’d watched those home improvement shows on TV — especially the one with a very calm guy, who never raised his voice and who was so ably assisted by a perky pseudo-wife whose safety glasses’ rims color coordinated with her work shirts.

Each week, they’d tackle a project — and the best part was they’d always end the show laughing and smiling. Installing a deck? Practically a picnic. Drywalling? What a breeze!

First up for us: painting our entry and hallway, a narrow corridor that jogs midway between basement door and bath. We could crank that out in a weekend, I thought. I thought wrong.

When I went to pick out paint, I felt the way Dorothy must have when she opened the door and stepped out into Oz. The color palette has exploded into a dazzling assortment of designer hues named to make us hungry, transport us to distant lands, or, thanks to the shades sanctioned by the National Trust for Historic Preservation, allow us to paint a pedigree on the walls.

Over a two-week period, I’d approach the paint counter, clutching various color samples as if I was playing some crazy card game (Porcelain Sink in an eggshell finish? Go Fish.)

Pony Tail (too brown). Apricot Haze (now if it had been a peach, maybe). Sandy Oasis (too, well, sandy). Belle Grove Buff (too yellow). Hominy (bland).

We even tried creating a color that, to put it nicely, looked like the result of a toddler eating too much pureed butternut squash.

My husband gamely painted swatches on the walls. The hallway started looking like a patchwork canvas. I started liking the smell of paint fumes.

Antique (too dingy). Woodrow Wilson Presidential White (Woodrow Wilson???). Sand Dollar (too gray). Belgian Waffle (perhaps a French crepe, s’il vous plait?). Coconut Milk (I’m a 2 percent person myself). Pale Chamois (too yellow). Buttermilk Biscuit (maybe I was looking for more of a crescent roll?).

In the end, we ended up splashing Homestead Resort Cameo White up on the walls.

The paint wasn’t even dry before I declared it was a mistake.

It’s pink, I cried. Mark rolled his eyes and sighed.

But I’m starting to see things a little differently. The news is filled with people losing their homes to foreclosure. Jobs are disappearing, and friends are looking for work.

We’re blessed. I think I’ll take rose-colored lenses in my safety glasses.

And I think, if we’re lucky, Bermuda Sand might just be perfect for the dining room.