A Snowy Paint Job
The forecast predicted 14 to 28 inches of snow and high winds. It even called this a blizzard, not the typical blustery snow storm.
I’ve learned to listen to forecasts, and even take the next step: prepare for them.
First, I rearranged my Bozeman meat deliveries so I would be home in time to feed the cows and sheep before the storm hit.
I brought firewood in next to the woodstove. The chimney I cleaned last June might come in handy.
I bought more milk.
I tucked the sheep into the barn, where howling winds from the north would not push them into southern fence corners.
Then the thought of an entire day indoors flashed before my eyes.
I could get my taxes ready; I really should get my taxes ready.
I could spend the day curled up in the recliner with one of the 18 books that lays in waiting on my bed.
But pink tile was calling my name.
The same pink tile that I had been looking at every single time I entered the bathroom for the past 15 years.
I’m pretty sure all of the paint companies sent their representatives to a nationwide conference about 50 years ago. The reps sat at the bar on the last night of the convention and unilaterally decided to hold a sale on Pepto Bismal pink paint, tile, carpeting and flamingos.
It must have been one heck of a sale.
Everywhere I turn, kitchens and bathrooms from that era scream at stomach aches. I even spotted a pink home near I-15.
I bet the discount on 50-gallon barrels was enormous.
When we moved in, our bathroom was stylin’.
I felt like I walked into a bottle of Pepto Bismal every time: Pink tile on the walls, pink carpet on the floor, pink ceiling.
In desperation, I learned to lay floor tile, a nice neutral stone color.
Frankly, I’m proud of that effort.
But that pink wall tile had me flummoxed.
Did I want to go to the effort to remove it?
The wallpaper on the upper half was high quality and livable. It coordinated and toned down the pink tile.
I could paint the wallpaper, but I would still be left with a medicine bottle on the bottom half of the walls.
Paint wouldn’t stick to the tile.
The expert at the local building supply store gave me the answer. He had a sticky primer that solved my problem.
I debated over colors for about 10 minutes.
Then I chose semi-gloss instead of glossy paint.
I didn’t want my bathroom to be mistaken for a house of ill repute.
I began taping the edges while my daughter, Abby, carefully textured the tile with primer.
The color I chose was dark and my bathroom is relatively small.
Would I feel claustrophobic after I finished painting?
I’ve made poor paint choices before.
We were living on the edge, with no way to turn back now.
It took me 15 years to decide how to fix my bottle of Pepto Bismal. I knew I would live with this choice for a long time.
We worked all day, forgetting about the taxes, listening to the wind and the country music countdown, watching snow build up in the screens of the windows on the north side and snow drifts pile up between the house and the shop.
As I stroked paint on each wall, I stepped back occasionally, checking my gut to see if I still liked this dark blue-green wall.
The real test would be the next morning when I flipped the light on for the first time.
I treaded through the dark house and reached for the light switch.
I felt like I was walking into a jewelry box.
I can live with that for the next 15 years.