Red-Headed Stepchild

In typical fashion, I came home to my parent's house in Rehoboth for the funeral, assessed the interior design situation and declared that something had to be done. Repainting the front and back halls, to be exact.

A little background - my parents live in a farmhouse built in the mid-1700s (after the original property was burned down by a local Native American tribe during King Philip's War - the local chief's 'white man' name - with the colonists). Paint on the walls is the least of anyone's concerns. Uneven floorboards, slanted ceilings, a complete lack of hallways (meaning one must walk through a bedroom to get to the bathroom - really super when your Dad visits the restroom minimum twice per night), tiny bedrooms - charm my parents love, but that also has its . . . quirks.

Such as three layers of paint in differing shades ranging from cream to bright white to dirt.

So I hit Home Depot with my mother and siblings where Mom picks the paint colors and we get the gear. Sanding down the old paint begins in the front hallway.

Hah. Reality punches me in the face in the form of lead-filled paint dust (which Emily, clad in a windbreaker, snow hat and ski goggles, has smartly prepared herself for). The trim alone has taken a full day (damn you wee colonists and your little, odd-shaped doors!). The back staircase hallway now forgotten like a red-headed stepchild, I curse myself, ye olde builders and the horrendous taste of the people before us.

What I had originally hoped would take a day in a half is now guaranteed to be 3.5. Minimum. I have only myself to blame.