Painting over more memories

So, I'm finally painting the kitchen.

For those of you who know me in an other-than-internet manner, you'll know that the kitchen is sunny yellow. A yellow that, like the dark green of the den, Mark picked out. It's actually a yellow that suits the room, just as the dark green suits the den. He even wanted a brighter shade (that probably would have been fine) but a yellow titled "Beach Ball" frightened me a bit.

With ivory wainscoting, it's quite nice. But it's also quite dirty. And back when I was in the "every memory of the man must go" stage, I bought two gallons of pale yellow paint, called "opal cream," with plans to keep the yellow theme, but go far lighter.

I was going to paint the den copper, but finally came to my senses. The room was beautiful in dark green, and to destroy beauty just because you didn't want to think of the person who made the decision...well, that was just plain stupid. Instead I moved the furniture, made it my winter bedroom/office, got my cushy furniture, and enjoyed the hunter green in a way I never had before.

The kitchen...well, the kitchen deserved the same. Yellow was good for it. When Mark would actually say what he wanted, his instincts were damned good. I should have gone just a shade lighter instead of trying to "unyellow" it by choosing the palest option I could find.

Today I decided I couldn't let winter slide away without completing every already-paid-for home improvement on my list (and the paint was paid for), so I pulled out the gallons and popped open a top.

Hmmmm.....Opal Cream is exactly that--opal. It ain't yellow. It's, well, hand-churned butter color. Very pretty. But not yellow.

I started painting, and I stopped. The room really would have looked better yellow.

But here was $60 worth of opal paint.

I kept painting.

It is a beautiful color. A quiet, warm color. It is a grown-up, adult color. The yellow was young and cheerful.

I just am not young and cheerful anymore. Cheerful is not in my vocabulary of integrity any longer, although I can fake it fairly well.

As I painted over my cheerful yellow walls with my quiet mature opal paint, it became easier to remind myself that in two years the walls would be need to be repainted anyway, and if I were a cheerful yellow person at that time, there was no reason the kitchen couldn't become yellow again.

Paint is a wonderful thing.

The other problem with choosing pale paint is that all other surfaces also need to be redeemed. The ceiling...ick. The woodwork now looks dull. As I painted the walls, I looked at the stained wainscoting and thought "I just painted this! How can it be so filthy!"

The I realized I had last painted it when Mark said he was leaving and I thought I was going to sell the house. And that, my friends, was 1.75 years ago.

wtf?

I've been alone here for almost two years?

The fuel oil man came, filled the tank, and handed me my $800.00 fuel bill. I sat down and looked at it. I've been paying the bills, taking out the recycling, mowing the lawn, fixing the house, stacking the wood, picking away at the paint on the outside of my big red farmhouse for almost two years?

Huh.

It occurs to me, though the bank account is low, that I am rich. Very rich. I look up, and that opal paint looks better and better. I'm look forward to spring when I'll see the grass ripple back into green and I can tackle the gardens again and paint the final peaks on the house.

The yellow was all a lie anyway. He hated these walls, hated this house, hated this farm, and hated me.

Good riddance.


Post Note: Morning, the next day. LOL! Just a little baggage, Susan? And I wasn't blogging while drinking wine, either. Too expensive anymore. :)