Every time in entered my house through the front storm door, I was reminded of the paint ripped free due to a taped-on placard left by a plumbing inspector.
The underlying base paint was white and not far off in tone from what I applied to the door initially. Still, it mocked me, this careless bureaucratic gesture, as I continued to ignore the defaced entranceway.
During the imposed lockdown, I was looking for some task that I hadn’t planned on, to point to as my effort at staying engaged with household life. The door seemed a good candidate.
I have lousy luck matching paint to existing work. My grand plan of maintaining a spreadsheet of used paints never materialized. So, I rummaged through my vast store of half-empty paint cans, hoping to remember which I had used for the door.
The paint closest to my reach was Antique White. Could this be the matching color? The door looked more beige. Still, I swiped this paint on the damaged section to see how close it came. Then I saw other sections needing a touch up and covered those also. I stepped back to judge. No match, and now it looked like Zorro had decided to mark my house as his.
Checking paint hues at the hardware store, I found a color card containing both Sundance and Banana tones. I ordered a quart of Sundance, clearly stating that I didn’t want Banana. I added a coat of the concoction to my door and stood back to admire my work. Rats! A Banana door.
I opened the Antique White again, and decided on a solution. Adding a white coat to the Banana might give me a match. Close, but the Banana bled through. I added another white coat. Somewhat better, but still not quite there. The next day, I added a third cover. Much closer now.
Still, four coats of paint to cover a complete door to fix a section maybe two inches by six, seemed like overkill.
But the beast had been unleashed. What else could I paint? I remembered that when the attic stairs were installed years ago, the wood section, which sat flush to the ceiling, was unpainted. At that time, I ignored advice from the handyman to paint it to match the ceiling. Now was my chance. A few minutes of labor and this task would also fall by the wayside.
Armed with the white, and planning to leave more paint on the door than my pants or sneakers, I studied the section. Painting it directly overhead like Michelangelo at the Sistine Chapel, was quickly ruled out. Instead, I pulled the door open to a 45-degree angle and painted while insuring that it didn’t spring back.
Funny thing about unpainted wood. I sucks in paint like an Eagles fan does beer on a Fall Sunday. It took me about three coats, and an hour of twisting and turning, before the door was more white than wood. Still, I had finished and conquered one more delayed task.
After collecting the newspapers used as a drop cloth, I carefully went outside making sure not to trip and spill the remaining paint.
I stood in the fresh air, proud of my accomplishments. There was still a little Antique White left. I pondered what I should paint next? Wait a minute, where was that damn cat that keeps walking over my car?
The underlying base paint was white and not far off in tone from what I applied to the door initially. Still, it mocked me, this careless bureaucratic gesture, as I continued to ignore the defaced entranceway.
During the imposed lockdown, I was looking for some task that I hadn’t planned on, to point to as my effort at staying engaged with household life. The door seemed a good candidate.
I have lousy luck matching paint to existing work. My grand plan of maintaining a spreadsheet of used paints never materialized. So, I rummaged through my vast store of half-empty paint cans, hoping to remember which I had used for the door.
The paint closest to my reach was Antique White. Could this be the matching color? The door looked more beige. Still, I swiped this paint on the damaged section to see how close it came. Then I saw other sections needing a touch up and covered those also. I stepped back to judge. No match, and now it looked like Zorro had decided to mark my house as his.
Checking paint hues at the hardware store, I found a color card containing both Sundance and Banana tones. I ordered a quart of Sundance, clearly stating that I didn’t want Banana. I added a coat of the concoction to my door and stood back to admire my work. Rats! A Banana door.
I opened the Antique White again, and decided on a solution. Adding a white coat to the Banana might give me a match. Close, but the Banana bled through. I added another white coat. Somewhat better, but still not quite there. The next day, I added a third cover. Much closer now.
Still, four coats of paint to cover a complete door to fix a section maybe two inches by six, seemed like overkill.
But the beast had been unleashed. What else could I paint? I remembered that when the attic stairs were installed years ago, the wood section, which sat flush to the ceiling, was unpainted. At that time, I ignored advice from the handyman to paint it to match the ceiling. Now was my chance. A few minutes of labor and this task would also fall by the wayside.
Armed with the white, and planning to leave more paint on the door than my pants or sneakers, I studied the section. Painting it directly overhead like Michelangelo at the Sistine Chapel, was quickly ruled out. Instead, I pulled the door open to a 45-degree angle and painted while insuring that it didn’t spring back.
Funny thing about unpainted wood. I sucks in paint like an Eagles fan does beer on a Fall Sunday. It took me about three coats, and an hour of twisting and turning, before the door was more white than wood. Still, I had finished and conquered one more delayed task.
After collecting the newspapers used as a drop cloth, I carefully went outside making sure not to trip and spill the remaining paint.
I stood in the fresh air, proud of my accomplishments. There was still a little Antique White left. I pondered what I should paint next? Wait a minute, where was that damn cat that keeps walking over my car?