Against the Grain; a True Story About a Faux Finish

Grained wood in modest Italianate style homes is pretty common.  Our farmy Italianate Villa is no exception. Most of the wood trim and floors are, or were grained to look mahoganyish.

Graining is a faux finish (I always want to make a joke about a Swede pretending to be from Finland) that makes ordinary wood such as pine or poplar look like more expensive wood such as oak or mahogany.

As the master bedroom restoration nears completion, Alana and I are preparing to grain the floors so that they (hopefully) resemble the original finishes on the stairs in the main entry foyer and second storey landing.

It sounds easy enough but it involves a lot of steps:

1) read articles on the net and in books that detail the processes of faux finishes

2) get Alana’s art supplies out and mix the appropriate base coat and glaze coat color samples to take to the paint store

3) go to the paint store, disregard the color samples, and pick out something entirely different. (more on this fiasco in a minute)*

4) paint the “previously stripped to bare wood” floors with the base coat

5) grain the foyer and realize the base coat and the glaze coat are just plain wrong

6) imagine that the issue can be fixed by changing just the glaze color and try again

7) admit that the base color is also wrong, then try to tint paint that we have on hand to save money

8.) re-paint the floors with the re-tinted paint we had on hand

9) the color is still as wrong as wrong can be

10) back to the paint store with the Faux Finish book and have the Sherwin Williams paint master match the color in the book.

Clearly, you can see that just getting the base coat on the floor is a ten step process. I left out the heated discussions about who chose the color and why it doesn’t work and the way the grained wood looked near the spindles of the stair balustrade.

That all happened a week or so ago and since then I re-sanded the floor (the paint is getting kind of thick), installed some crown molding that looks quite nice although I admit I’m not the greatest trim carpenter. The fact that the molding is paint grade makes me care even less than normal about perfection because I am a caulk master. Really. Caulk grade trim is my specialty.

I also re-painted the ceiling because, as hard as I try, I never manage to get a ceiling perfect without at least three coats of paint. The windows are trimmed in as well and I scraped off the blobs of paint that accumulated on the muntins because Sherwin Williams “Super Paint” flows for about an hour. It eliminates brush marks but it’s hell on vertical surfaces.  Even though this paint is a hard to use product that requires diligence, I’m not letting Alana off the hook for the runs. Please let me have this one thing to hold over her head.

The grained floor looking out to the foyer.

*3) I said I’d get back to this. Here’s the story as I remember it:

We arrive at the paint store and I have the color samples in my hand. As we enter… not quite yet through the door, we both see, at the same time, a perfectly filled with female pair of jeans. Out of  respect for my wife I immediately averted my glance but at the same time I forgot she was behind me and I let the door close in her face. I now regret that lapse of cognitive reasoning.

After re-opening the door for Alana, I proceeded to the paint mixing counter to have the samples we created at home, reproduced in volume. It was then I noticed that my wife wasn’t standing at my side. I looked around the paint store. She was gone. I left the paint counter and went searching. I found her behind a paint chip gondola, ignoring me, but absolutely absorbed in the paint chips on display. In hindsight I realize that she was just trying to stay away from me because I let the door close in her face, but at that moment I thought she had second thoughts about our color choices. So I made my way over to her and in the following minutes we chose colors from the store chips instead of from the samples we prepared. I assume no blame for this event but if you ask her, I forced us to choose the wrong colors.

Almost done...400 square feet took about 20 hours

Getting back to graining the floor- last night I painted the base coat color for the third time. We started with a straw color, progressed to an autumn orangish color and now have a sort of copper patina color. The base coat is what sets the tone for the floor but is hardly visible after the glaze coat and graining are done. By itself it looks quite garish, but I’m confident that it’s the right choice.

The following bit may at first seem unconnected to the graining story:

We have four cats that live in the back room of our home. (The back room is going to be a nice kitchen and I’m starting on that as soon as this master bedroom suite is finished.) The matriarch of the pride is Betty. She’s a manx cat and almost entirely feral. She’s around 11 years old and has been held just a handful of times. Only a few of those showings of affection did not result in bloodshed. She’s not friendly but she is smart  and she has  trained us to feed her by dashing into the house knowing that we’ll bribe her back out with food. Thank God we can have that much control over her because she’s a tailless ball of pure muscle knotted into a twitchy defensive coil in a continuous state of readiness.

Yesterday afternoon, Betty got in and I forgot about her. It’s unlike her to be in for long but as Alana was taking a bath and I was about to shower I saw the normally unsocial feline enter the hall leading to the wet paint third coating on the bedroom floor.

Miraculously, using soothing tones and slow motions I got Betty to pause for a moment directly in front of me. I pounced, put 80% of my 200 lbs on her back with my hand, and pinned her to the floor. Betty laughed, snarled, lifted me and escaped. To prove her utter contempt with my feeble effort she careened around the room in a celebratory frenzy. When she realized the floor was slippery, she slowed down but continued to strut like a running back in the end zone. The only option was to close the door so she couldn’t track wet paint throughout the house, then wait for the paint to dry.  I had a nice martini; well not so much a martini as it was a tumbler of vodka. No ice, no shaking, no stirring, one olive for appearances.

Today I’m graining the floor. I hope the cat prints don’t show through.

Believe me. If you can walk upright, this is within your skill-set

Wall Paper. Ugh

I hesitate to share this, but my wife and I are reading a “relationship” book called Conscious Loving.

As a rule, I’m far too manly to even admit there are relationship skills, much less commit to work on them. Like most men, I just grunt when something needs to be communicated. We’re about 2/3 of the way through through the book now and just about ready to start the exercises to become a better “co-committed” couple. I’m not positive the concept works because as we read it aloud to each other, each of us is quick to point out the flaws in the other when it’s the topic of the text. I’m finding myself using terms like “projection” and “redefining” and frankly, it bothers me. One of the topics describes the universal human tragedy of how when you’re feeling really good you do something to spoil the mood. For example, this cake is delicious (that’s the feel good part), it’s going to make my ass huge (spoil the mood part). The authors of the book call the condition an “upper limits threshold”.

It boils down to this: we must have both been at our “upper limits” threshold because we started to wall paper a room… together. Well that’s not entirely accurate; we were in the same room while I was wall-papering. Alana was painting the trim and the windows.

As I age, I get more and more methodical. I have learned the hard way that it’s way faster to take the time to be prepared. I measured out 19 inches from the corner. I ran a level line around the room 6 inches or so below the ceiling so I could be certain that the paper stayed plumb and that the pattern would line up when I got around. I set up a table and the water tray and I pre-cut all the full length pieces for the entire room. I had a squeegee, a bucket of water, a wall paper brush and sharp razor blades all ready to go. I was ready. I was prepared. I did the math.

The first two strips went up without event but the third strip was more challenging because it went around an outside corner and across a valance. Before I could stop myself, I asked her opinion. What I didn’t really ask for was help. Now, here she was, in my area and she was asking me why I didn’t have a sponge while relaying her vast papering experience that included being taught that one never runs the sponge or squeegee up and down, only across. No exceptions. Ever.

At least that’s what I think she said because whenever she gives me advice, my brain has a deficiency that changes the English language into the language that Charlie Brown’s teacher uses. Buhwaa, waaa waah. I try to take clues from her facial expressions to interpolate what she’s trying to communicate because, Lord knows, I can’t understand a word of what she’s saying.

In Alana’s defense, she’s frequently right about stuff like this but I still bristle every time she tries to educate me. Outwardly, I blame her delivery method. I maintain that she lacks diplomacy. Deep down though, I’m pretty sure that I just hate being told how to do something, especially by her.

I have no plans for self improvement regarding this issue.

Finally, I was educated and ready to proceed. To my dismay, I realized that the next strip required two people, working as a team, communicating and anticipating the other’s needs. The strip had to be cut because there is an electrical panel and a doorway in this particular section of wall. I’ll spare the details but we went through half of the expendable excess we’d figured for the job and the final result was Alana informing me the final attempt didn’t look any better than the second attempt. We’re going to hang a painting over the panel anyway.

Now, the room is papered and the window trim is mostly painted. Baseboards original to the home have been stripped and fitted and are waiting for a coat of primer.

The floor still needs to be grained and I think we’ve finally settled on the proper color for a base coat.

It’s Monday then it’s Friday, Then You’re 85

Six years ago (it may be seven) my wife and I decided to move our bedroom from the center of the house to a room near the front of the house to put more space between us and our children.

We moved our daughter from the room we wanted, to another room closer to the rooms of her three brothers, thereby completing the consolidation of our four children to their own wing. Alright, their quarantine ward of our rambling 1830’s Italianate Villa.

It’s not that we don’t love our children; we do. But after years of waking up to their comments and smirks about any sound  that originated in our room from flatulence to the most  innocent bed squeak, we were positive that additional real-estate between us and them was the only way to ensure that they reached adulthood.  So began the remodel of the master bedroom and bathroom.

1.) It had to be soundproof; not quiet, not muffled, positively isolated from the rest of the house.

2.) The master bath had to have no access from anywhere except for the master bedroom. Alana wanted to sit with confidence and I was tired of waiting in line.

I began to research sound proofing methods. I read about soundproofing recording studios, band practice rooms and the sound proof booths they use on game shows. I poured over techniques used by better hotels to provide their guests with a good night’s sleep.

I employed them all. Loud, satisfying, decidedly unholy sex was looming on the horizon.

We installed dense pack insulation in the building cavities. We isolated the gypsum board from the studs and adjoining spaces with Celotex soundboard and resilient channel. I treated even the exterior walls with the same fervor, a measure that can only be described as wearing a condom while sworn to celibacy.  In the event that they were, for some reason, in the formal parlor below our room, I filled between the floor joists with dense pack as well and then resolved the floor would be covered in Homosote, followed by a really thick carpet pad and finally, a really thick carpet. I convinced myself and my wife that we were allowed to change the character of the historic home if we did it to just this room. We told ourselves that the wood floors, if asked, would sacrifice their contribution to character. We were delusional and giddy about the prospect of complete privacy.

The room is square. It used to be rectangular but we removed a wall that separated it from a hall and stole that space and at the same time incorporated the grand old semi circular stair case and second storey landing as an adjacent sitting area that provided access to balcony where we’d drink coffee and hopefully, some bourbon on occasion.

Within a few months the checklist was waning. Demo: done. Wiring: done. Walls and ceilings: done. Soundproofing: done.

Then it was summer.

We grow strawberries and blueberries on a small commercial scale, and at that time we had a flock of sheep. I was busy. I had a business that I worked at 70-80 hours a week. My wife was attending college full time and making sure our kids would be productive decent adults. We were busy. The kids were busy.

The house needed siding, the trim needed painting, the barn needed roofing, the crops needed weeding and the sheep needed feeding. And so the summer went. The future master bedroom started collecting “things” that probably should have been stored somewhere else or ideally, thrown away. Every horizontal surface was covered with stuff we thought we needed but should have tossed.

The days flew by. My Great Aunt Alice who wasn’t quite “all there” toward the end of her life, (she thought I was Bob Vila… I had a beard) summed it all up with a quote that has become a credo of sorts for my attitude: “It’s Monday, then it’s Friday, and then you’re 85”.

Here’s a brief list of things that happened before we got back to making our master dream suite:

• The following winter someone drove through our sheep fence for the seventh or eighth time in the middle of a frigid February. I decided that I’d worked enough high tensile steel wire with fingers so cold I had to watch to see if I was touching anything. We sold our sheep.
• I built a nice sunken garden with raised beds to grow our veggies
• We roofed the house
• We insulated and sided the house added some windows and doors and painted.
• We tore down a small addition that was decrepit and added a nice back porch
• New paver entry/ patio
• Installed a basement under the barn to house the wood burning boiler
• I built the boiler
• Master bath is finished
• Sold a business and started a new business in a completely different field
• Finally, the kids all moved out and  are in, or done with college and our daughter has two children of her own.  In the mean time I had a mid life melt down that can be described only as Vesuvius on steroids.

Fast forward from early 2002 to late 2008. I’m just getting around to the room that’s soundproof enough to host Lynyrd Skynyrnd revivals.

Yesterday, I finished restoring the windows and the walk out French style full height windows that lead to the balcony. Restoring a window takes a long time and I’ll save the process for another blog.

Anyway, we’re going to finish the bedroom this winter and damnit, I’m blogging the whole sordid scenario.

If you don’t look out for yourself, who will?

It occurred to me while listening to the talking heads at a town meeting recently, that just about everything runs on nepotism. For the process to work, it depends on apathy from the folks who count on the system to protect them. If the system functions at a minimally proficient level and folks are adequately apathetic, then no one ever questions the methods or results.

Government corruption and personal gain under the guise of public service isn’t ground breaking news. Only the most naïve of the innocents believes that all the decisions are made for the public good. You take it for granted that someone somewhere benefited personally while making decisions that affect you as an individual. You’re used to it and you expect it. At least in the case of government you’re prepared.

What you don’t expect is to be blindsided by people that you hire to protect your best interest. You might think it’s a stretch to go from elected officials to home inspectors and their clients, but the fact is, the analogy is dead on. Another good analogy is the herring ball phenomena, but you’ll have to Google that one. Here’s some advice though, don’t be a herring ball.

Anyway, a lot of people hire someone to help them buy a house. We know the official name for folks that help people buy houses but humor me and let me call them buyer’s advocates because that’s what they’re supposed to be. The buyer’s advocate is fighting an uphill moral battle from the get go. They don’t get paid until the buyer actually buys something and when they do get paid they get a percentage of sale price. So, the buyer’s advocate makes more per hour if the sale goes fast and for a high price. In contrast, in the buyer’s best interest, the advocate must help bargain the price down and show the buyer a number of properties so that the buyer can feel she has been exposed to a sampling of what’s available in the market. The nature of the system plays tug of war with the advocate’s responsibility to his client and with his desire for a new Volvo with a personalized plate that says ‘eyesell’ because he didn’t think of it first. Logically, it’s very difficult to end up with a win-win situation. It’s much easier to end up with a situation where one wins and the other thinks she wins.

The news doesn’t get better from here on.

Most buyer’s advocates have a stable of inspectors that they suggest the buyer use. The advocates usually call these inspectors ‘my inspector’. The phrase ‘my inspector’ really isn’t that subtle. Think about it.

The inspector relies on the buyer’s advocate for referrals and therefore for his livelihood. For the inspector, that makes the buyer’s advocate the most important person in every deal. The inspector really, really wants the buyer’s advocate to like him and use him again. I’m pretty sure you get the picture.

The advocate benefits when the house sells for a lot of money and it sells fast. The inspector is beholden to the advocate for his living and might paint a rosy picture of the house to preserve the deal and his referral base. You paid both of these people to be trustworthy but it’s like you had the used car you’re buying checked over by the used car salesman’s mechanic. Maybe, the car salesman and the car salesman’s mechanic are dead honest and really want to give you the best deal possible. Maybe.

There’s no great way to pick a home inspector but researching it on your own and picking an inspector that’s independent of the “good ole boy” club is worthwhile. At least it reduces the possibility of the nudge, nudge, wink, wink relationships eroding your position.

Here’s the last of the bad news. Even if you find an honest inspector, that’s just step #1. Step #2 is harder. Does the inspector know anything at all about houses?