What began as the American Dream for millions of families across America has segued tumultuously into the American Nightmare because they’ve lost their homes to the scourge of foreclosure. The constant anguish…the inexorable progression of the legal teams…the devastating separation of family and home…these events have turned many former homeowners into disenfranchised individuals who are without a roof over their heads to call home.
There’s a family somewhere who understands exactly what I’m expressing because it happened to them. I don’t know who the individuals are yet I stood in the very place they used to call home yesterday when I went to look at the foreclosed property. My feet stood in the living room they used to gather in. The kitchen they cooked in.
It’s time for painting again—the tenant on the top floor moved out and my plan is to get the apartment back on the market quickly. New York real estate is a hot commodity and it’s best to strike while the iron is hot. I did a complete reno on this apartment two years ago so it’s still in excellent condition. There’s no major renovation necessary; only patching nail holes (the tenant didn’t use drywall anchors), cleaning fingerprints and grease marks off the paint, and scrubbing the appliances to their original stainless steel glory (doesn’t anyone clean up after themselves anymore?).
Laying it On Thick
I’m repainting the apartment with the same paint I used before: white. Antique white, to be exact. There were a few gallons of this paint stored in the basement for future use so I brought it upstairs and prepared my tools. I decided to “patch” the primed areas last night with the Antique White instead of painting the entire wall—quick and easy work. Joy turned to despair once the paint skinned over: it didn’t match the paint on the wall. What happened? Did the paint “season” over those two years in the basement and mature into a different value? Or did the painted walls discolor in the sunlight and under the fluorescent lights? Or both? Or something else?