Color Me Home, Episode 002: Choosing Colors You'll Love!

In this episode, Betsy and Dan discuss several ways that will help you make sure that the next colors you choose are colors that will be perfect in your home!

Color Me Home Podcast, Episode 001: Finding Inspiration for Your Next Color Scheme

The Eyebrow Incident

The wheels started to come off right away this morning when I moved a little slower than normal while getting ready. A little delay here, a little delay there and I found myself in a time crunch. And that's never a good thing.

But, I figured I'd be OK. That I'd make up for lost time by moving a little more quickly than usual. And that's when the wheels came off entirely.

See, here's what happened: I was shaving. Quickly. And as I stood there in the bathroom, whipping the razor over my face in manic, almost jack-the-ripper-like fashion, I happened to catch a glance of something curious in the mirror. I brought the blade to a standstill, leaned in and, sure enough, there it was: a long, wispy hair shooting out of my eyebrow at a crazy angle. Hmmmm. Getting older seems to produce more and more of these.

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Dress for Success: 3 Tips for Your Next Paint Job!

A number of years ago, in the middle of the night, we heard something that sounded like gunshots outside our window. Well, needless to say, the second I heard the “shots”, I hopped out of bed, ready for action. Fight or flight, right?

Anyway, I was standing there, running through all the potential scenarios in my head when I looked down and realized I was in my underpants.

Well, this wouldn’t do.

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My Shortcut to the Movie Theater

"Century Theaters" by  taviamcgrath is licensed under CC BY 2.0

Hey, we all love shortcuts, don’t we? At any rate, I love shortcuts. I love the idea that there’s a path, a way–a quicker way–to get from point A to point B than the path that everybody else is taking. Yeah . . . shortcuts are cool. At least, they’re cool when they work. When they don’t . . . we’ll that’s another story.

Years ago, I was attending a seminary in Kentucky and for the first time in my entire life (at least since I graduated from elementary school)–for the first time in my entire life since elementary school, I was cool and people actually wanted to be around me–even girls. Of course, it was all because I was one of the few people there who had a car and therefore that meant I could drive them places and drop them off at malls and restaurants and come back and get them later so they wouldn’t have to ride the bus or just stay home . . . but hey, like I said, girls wanted to ride in my car with me and whatever their reason, I wasn’t arguing.

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The Inevitable Forgetting of Important Things

Andrew is a habitual "Forgetter."

My family and I just wrapped up another Little League season and among all the wonderful things that baseball season brings into our lives, there's one thing that I could do without:  the Inevitable Forgetting of Important Things.  

There are a number of Capital Letters in that phrase, so let me explain:  Whenever there was a baseball game on a week night, our evening would devolve into chaos quite quickly.  I'd arrive home from work five minutes after the time we should have left.  To get back on schedule, I'd typically eat dinner without chewing it while I changed my clothes and brushed my teeth. This was a multi-tasking miracle in regards to the number of tasks accomplished at once.  However, because of the diverse nature of the tasks, it was also messy and somewhat disgusting.  Still, it's what was necessary to get to the game on time.  So I did it.  

Once that strange combination of eating/teeth brushing/clothes changing was done, I'd run out to the van, hop into the driver's seat, turn the key and then, for the first time in the entire evening, I'd pause. Turning around, I'd stare each of the kids in the eye, hold their attention for a second or two, let the import of the moment sink into their little heads, and then I'd ask:  "Do you have everything?"

It was a simple question.  A question meant to jog their little memories.  A question meant to make them ask the question in their own heads:  "Do I really, truly have everything I might need for tonight's athletic event?" 

Instead, every time I asked the question, they'd respond immediately, with absolutely zero thought (and with some exasperation):  "yes, dad".

Well, I've got five children and the oldest two are13, so this isn't my first rodeo, so to speak.  And so I would never let them off that easily:  "You have everything?  Really?  How about your glove?  Your hat?  Your bat bag?  Your bat?  Your cleats?"  I'd rattle off every single piece of baseball gear I could think of as they answered with an immediate "yes" to each item.

Finally, after what felt like a 30 minute deposition, I'd turn around in my seat, ease the van out of the driveway, and begin the journey to the baseball field.  And every single time, after I was far enough away from home to make going back frustrating, I'd hear it start:  the scuffling of their little fingers as they clawed through their bat bags looking for something.

I'd hope against hope every time I heard this that they were looking for a Mento.  But no.  After about 30 seconds of frantic scuffling, someone would nervously clear his throat as happened several nights ago:

"Uh, Dad?"

"Yes..." (through gritted teeth).

"Ummm.  Funny thing . . . you know when you asked if we had everything and then listed off all the things?"

"Yes."

"Well, you know what you forgot to list off?"

"No.  What did I forget to list off?" (through gritted teeth again).

"Well . . . and this really is hilarious . . . you never asked me if I was wearing my cup."  At this point the kid usually breaks into nervous laughter and falls silent. No one else typically laughs at this point because they know trouble when they see it.

I try to keep my cool and clinging to a very unreasonable hope, I ask:  "Are you wearing your cup?"

"Ummm.  Not technically.  I actually forgot it.  We'll have to go back and get it.  But don't worry.  I'm pretty sure I know where it might be..."

Every time.  Every game. Oh, sometimes they'd forget gloves.  Sometimes, it was their bat.  Maybe their hat, their sunglasses, their Gatorade . . . it doesn't matter.  Whatever it was they forgot, it was always something we'd have to go flying back to the house to retrieve.

And it drove me nuts, stressed me out, and got almost every single game night off to a rocky and uncomfortable start.  All because we weren't organized.  All because we were starting something without having all the right equipment.

Well, the same thing often happens when we're working on paint projects. We start the work and after we dip our expensive brush into a new gallon of oil-based paint, we realize we forgot to pick up paint thinner.  Or we pour our paint into a tray and realize that the roller cover we had isn't the right one for the project. Or--and this just happened to me a week or so ago--we run downstairs to grab that paint brush we've got in the basement only to find that we didn't clean it out well enough the last time.  Now it's unusable and we're standing there with our paint can open and no brush to apply it with.  

Click here to download the file!

When we forget to amass the right tools for our paint projects, we find the stress level rises quickly.  Our schedules are thrown into chaos, and all too often (if you're like me) we try to make things work using the tools we have, not necessarily the right ones.  And usually, the results are frustrating and disappointing.

The good news about all of this is there's a fix.  At least for the paint project part of it (I don't know how to fix the baseball stuff!).  Anyway, the way to make sure you've got all the right tools for your next paint job is as simple as using a basic "Project Checklist".

We've got one that you can download by clicking this link.  It's a simple tool that will help you mentally go through your project ahead of time.  The list will recommend certain items and most of the time, you'll discover one or two things you would never have thought to gather ahead of time.

Tackling a paint project can be a very rewarding and fulfilling experience.  It can even be somewhat of a stress reliever--almost therapeutic in a way.  Just make sure you've got all the items necessary before you start and you'll discover how smoothly a project can go!

Meet the Hopsons!

OK, so you've got vinyl siding on your home in a boring color.  What do you do?  Well, you can do what the Hopson's did in the video below or, you can repaint it with Benjamin Moore's new Revive Vinyl Siding paint.  Watch the video and decide which method works best for you and your family! 

 

After watching the video, if you decide on the Revive option, stop out at any RepcoLite location throughout West Michigan and let us get you started with the right information, tools, and, of course, the perfect color of Benjamin Moore's Revive!

The Incredible Shrinking Man

Last week I went to the doctor. It was nothing serious--at least it didn't start out that way--it was just a routine visit. Kind of a maintenance thing. However, in the course of this "maintenance" visit, I was made aware of potentially life-changing information:  I'm shrinking. At an incredible rate.

See, when they called my name and led me out of the waiting room, they brought me to a little corner of despair where they keep the scale and the wall-mounted "how-short-are-you-now?"-o-meter. I hate both of these devices and particularly dread this part of each doctor's visit.

As was usual, they started with the scale. Now, normally, this part is a little awkward because while I'm not obscenely overweight, neither am I what you might call "fit".  With the right clothes on, I look fine (if you squint), but if you really take a look . . . well, it's not necessarily flattering.  At any rate, normally, when I climb onto the scale, the nurse clicks her tongue, shakes her head and makes a notation on my record.  Probably something about too many donuts. 

However, this time, I was actually excited to get on the scale. Oh, it'd been 2 years since last I stood on that little device, but I knew my weight was down. In fact, I was willing to bet I was about 11 or 12 pounds lighter than last time. And so, with that confidence in my back pocket, I hopped onto the scale and waited for the digital numbers to stop ticking. And sure enough:  they showed a weight loss from last time of about 12 pounds.

The nurse, with a bit of surprise (and, I thought, disappointment), noted this in my record, even commenting on the fact that I was significantly lighter.   

She then motioned toward the equipment on the wall--the "how-short-are-you-now" o-meter.  "Stand over there.  Back against the wall, head up straight, heels against the wall, chest in . . . "

I complied. Back straight. Eyes forward. Legs together. Chin rigid, strong.  And let me tell you:  I felt TALL.

She manipulated the equipment, sliding the little measuring bar until it hit the top of my head.  "Does that feel about right?"

"Yes."  I was confident.  Cool.  Collected.  And why not?  I was 12 pounds lighter than 2 years ago.  More fit than ever.  And, did I mention that I felt TALL?  I can't describe the feeling any better than that.  I just felt TALL.  Normally, I feel just the opposite.  Normally, when I stand up in the office where I work, I find myself eye-to-eye with people who are still sitting.  I'm not joking.  I work with such tall (some might say average height) people that I routinely spend every day feeling as if I'm about 12 years old among a gathering of grown-ups.  Normally, that's the case.  But not that day.  That day I felt TALL.  

And then the nurse spoke up:  "5 foot, 6 and 1 quarter."

It was so matter of fact.  A veritable non-event for her.  But that short, er, simple declaration, that reading of the scales, was world-shattering to me.

I was trying to process whether or not I'd heard her correctly when the import of the measurements hit her. Her face split into an eager smile.

"Ooooh!  This is interesting!" she said, looking over the papers in her hand, flipping back through years and years of notes.  "Did you know that just 2 years ago you were 5' 7"  Just 2 short years ago!  Did you realize that?"

I half-nodded since I was still processing the results. 

"And did you hear that you are now 5' 6 1/4"?"

I nodded again.

"You know what that means, right?  You know that means you've Shrunk, right?"  (I'm certain she used the word in the capitalized form for effect.)  "You know that means you've Shrunk at least 3/4 of an inch in just 2 years!  That's amazing!"

She made a couple more notes in the book and then turned around to lead me to the room where I would wait until the doctor came.  However, after taking a couple of steps, she turned around and looked back at me.  She tilted her head to one side and stared for a long second or two before smiling and shaking her head. 

"3/4 of an inch in two years!  Wow!  If you keep shrinking at that rate . . . well . . . "  She trailed off, turned around and continued on her way to the examination room with me trailing along behind.  Like a small child who needed a sticker and his mommy.  

She showed me into the room and closed the door as she left.  And there I sat, my little legs dangling off the chair, just short of the floor by about 3/4 of an inch.  And while I sat there, I did math in my head.  And I realized that if I continue shrinking at that rate, by the I'm sixty-four I'll be 4' tall, probably 180 pounds, and I'll need a ladder to get into my car.  I'll need a booster seat at restaurants and I'll have to have one of my kids reach things off the top shelf of the refrigerator for me.  I'll have to sit on phone books at work so I can reach the computer keyboard, but in so doing, I will move my feet farther from the floor.  I'll have to . . . .

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and the entrance of the doctor.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  At least now we could get on with the business at hand.  The maintenance check up.  We could infuse the situation with some professionalism, this doctor and I.  We could put away all this talk about shrinking and we could discuss important things like . . . .

"So," the doctor broke into my thoughts as she flipped through some papers on a clipboard.  "So, it seems you've shrunk almost 3/4" in 2 years!"  An amazed whistle escaped her lips.  "You know how amazing that is, right?"

Yeah.  I've heard.

Paint Screw-Ups Anonymous

"My name's Dan and I'm a recovering Prep Work Skipper."  

If there were support groups for those of us who consistently mess up paint jobs, that's how I'd introduce myself every week.  

See, I do a lot of things right when it comes to a paint job.  I take the time necessary to pick the colors I really want (usually).  I amass the necessary tools before I start.  I buy quality materials and paint.  I do many things right.  

However, what I routinely screw up is this:  I skip or skimp on the prep work.  Every time.  It's like an addiction.  An addiction to skipping prep work.  I mean really, that's got to be one of the dumbest sounding sentences I've ever written, but it's the truth:  I hate prep work when I paint and so I skip it.  And then, inevitably (and by inevitably, I mean ALWAYS) it comes back to bite me.  Inevitably (always).

And so I'm turning over a new leaf. From here on out I'm going to make the following changes to my painting methods and practices:

RESOLUTION NUMBER 1:  I will no longer simply roll around or over the nails that are stuck in my wall.  This usually messes up my roller, creating a weird divot that repeats over and over on my wall, frustrating me; or, it creates drips on the wall or floor that I don't find until after the paint has dried.  And that always makes me profoundly sad.  From now on, I will remove those nails ahead of time.

RESOLUTION NUMBER 2:  I will patch the nail holes left in my wall when I implement Resolution Number 1 above.  And I will patch them with the proper spackling compound AND will let that compound DRY before I try to SAND it.  (Because I've tried to rush this and sanding only partially dried spackling results in results that make me profoundly sad.)  To give myself the proper time to accomplish these spackling and sanding tasks, I will have to tackle this aspect of the project ahead of the day that I plan to paint. This will require planning and discipline, and I resolve to practice both.

RESOLUTION NUMBER 3:   I will no longer tell myself that my walls are clean enough and do not need to be wiped down before I paint.  I will accept the fact that I do not regularly clean the top corners of every room and that even though I style myself as a clean and tidy person, there is a good chance that random cobwebs may be there.  I will take the necessary 20 minutes to wipe away those cobwebs so I don't end up rolling into them later with paint and then spreading them over my walls.  

RESOLUTION NUMBER 4:  I will no longer let myself believe that "scuff sanding" is a great idea, but that I really don't have time to do it right now.  I will take the necessary 10 minutes to scuff sand a dresser before I prime and paint it.  I will scuff sand my woodwork before I paint it.  I will scuff sand all shiny surfaces EVEN IF I'm using a primer that says "no scuff sanding necessary."  I will remember that there are no shortcuts.

RESOLUTION NUMBER 5:  I will no longer do everything else right--buy the right paint, buy the best tools, choose the right colors--only to screw the project up by skipping the prep work.  I will admit that an extra hour or two is worth all the extra work and frustration and money I've cost myself through the years by skipping prep work.  I will do the proper prep work, no matter how boring it is, so that my project looks as professional as possible when I finish. In short, I will no longer convince myself that certain prep-work projects are worthwhile, but that I simply don't have time for them.  I will make time for prep work precisely because it is so worthwhile.

Those are my resolutions.  I'll probably screw up from time to time, but I'm going to give it my best shot from here on out. How about you?  Anyone else out there who routinely skips the prep work stage only to be burned in the end?  Anyone else out there ready to circle up, admit your addiction to hating prep work, and start the recovery process?  The recovery group is open....

Basketball and Decorating

This is Caleb.  He's short.  I'm about his size. Just fatter.

Not too long ago, we purchased a portable basketball hoop for the kids. We figured we'd all have fun shooting hoops and doing all that "basketball stuff" in our driveway. I assumed it would be a great bonding time, would provide some excercise, and, above all, give us something to do outside.

Well, shortly after we installed the hoop in its place, I realized that it was very likely one of the greatest gifts anybody has ever given to his or her neighbors.  In the history of mankind.  Allow me to explain:

See, I'm short.  Let's just get that out on the table.  And it's not just me.  It's my whole family.  We're all short.  And when we set up that basketball hoop and extended the rim of the basket until it was regulation height, I realized just how short we really were.  We just stood there and watched it go up and up and up until it finally clicked into place.  I wish I had a snapshot of that moment--all of us looking straight up from our humble little positions on earth, some of us squinting.  You would have thought we were watching a comet.  Nope.  Just trying to see the basketball hoop.

Well, the insane height of the basket only frightened me for a minute or two before I steeled my nerves, grabbed the ball and started dribbling it.  It made a satisfying "thump" on the cement.  Made me feel like a man.  

Bouncing the ball, feeling cool, I stepped back a ways, gave myself some space for a good running start, and I took off. My tongue was hanging out in concentration, the ball was thumping against the concrete, my child-like hands were slapping it down, perfectly in-sync with each pattering footstep.  It felt just like what I've seen on TV:  real basketball players, running down the court getting ready to impress. 

My little heart was pounding as I reached that point when I had to jump.  My muscles tensed, my legs coiled and I launched myself into the air.  Flight:  it's a truly amazing thing.  I felt the air whipping through my thinning hair.  My ears popped as I reached heights heretofore never reached.  I felt like superman.  Unstoppable.  And, best of all, it happened in slow-mo.  

Well, in what felt like a long instant replay, I felt myself going up, up, up and I saw the basket get closer and closer and closer.  I reached up with the ball, prepared for the "slam", prepared for the cheering, prepared for the moment of release... and then, suddenly, I was back on the ground again.  The basket was barely visible way up in the sky.  The ball was still in my hand.  My right leg hurt and I had drool on my shirt.  I was sweating. 

Standing there, unsure what to do, I threw the ball as hard as I could into the air and pulled a muscle in my side as I did so.  The ball sailed skyward until it hit the bottom of the net--nuzzling it like a soft breeze--and then it fell back to earth, making an eery, hollow thump on the cement.

And then the kids started laughing.  I was told that in my amazing moment of jumping and "slamming", I had never once been more than 3 inches off the ground. Never once.  I thought I had been soaring, but I'd actually only been skidding along.  

Needless to say, the laughter went on for a while--until they started playing.  Then it quit abruptly because they realized they were no better. 

And from that point on, we've spent many a day running beneath that insanely high (regulation-height) basket, dribbling big basketballs that look oversized in our small, child-like hands.  We run and jump and not a single one of us gets more than 3 inches off the ground.  It's as if we've got invisible rubber bands strapped around our ankles and anchored into the ground.   

And that’s why I say this was one of the greatest gifts a neighbor has given another neighbor ever.  It’s comic relief.  Whenever my neighbors are feeling down or are having a bad day, they just need to look out the window and watch the Hansen family running around the 10 foot tall basket, leaping and jumping and for all that hard work, never once getting more than a few inches off the ground.  It’s absolutely hilarious.  We’re that bad. 

And it’s all because we’re not basketball people.  We’re just not cut out for it.  But even though we stink at it and even though we don’t have very many skills and even though we’re physically not capable of playing the sport competitively (or even casually) . . . we still do it and we still have fun.

And that’s the decorating point today.  So many times, I’ve talked to customers at RepcoLite who are picking out a color to go on their walls that’s the same color as the color already there.  It’s just a new coat--a clean coat--but it’s nothing different.

And they’re bored with it--I can tell that--it’s the same old thing they’ve always done.  But when you ask them and try to get them to step out and try something new, we often hear the same old excuse:  I’m no good at decorating. It’s not my thing.  I don’t know how to do it. 

Well, I’m not good at basketball.  I stink.  And so does my entire family.  And yet, we’ve already made some great memories running around the hoop trying to throw a ball high enough that it has a chance to go in. 

Just because you don’t think you’re good at decorating, don’t let that stop you from trying.  When you step outside of your comfort zone and start trying new things, you’ll discover how much fun it can be to take those plain walls in your home and start turning them into something that reflects who you are, who your family is.  So get going and give it a try.  And if you don’t know where to start, stop out at RepcoLite and let our decorators give you some advice.  You’ll be amazed how much fun the process can be.

3 Ways to Compromise With Your Kids about Paint Colors

Once upon a time, probably about 6 years ago or so, my wife and I walked with our kids to the Zeeland Bakery.  Caleb (who was 5 at the time) waited outside with me while my wife and the other kids sauntered into the shop and ordered various donuts and cookies and different types of bread.  (It's always a huge undertaking whenever we go to the bakery).

Anyway, while Caleb and I were waiting outside, a lady walked by with a 1-year-old boy in a stroller.  I smiled at the lady and Caleb smiled at the lady and he even went so far as to say "Hello."  I was proud that the little guy was so polite.  And it was this pride which eventually led to my downfall.

See, as the lady was walking away, but while she was still within earshot, I thought I'd demonstrate how polite and kind my little guy was.  So I said, loud enough for the lady to hear, "Wasn't that a nice little boy?"

Oh, it was a question that he should have been able to hit out of the park.  It was an easy one.  A no-brainer.  All he had to say was "Yes Dad, that boy seemed very nice, indeed."  Had he said that, the lady would have thought I was a super parent because I'd raised such a wonderfully polite little lad.  In fact, I figured there was always the off chance that she'd turn her stroller around, shake my hand and ask my advice as to how to raise her own child.

Yes, my mind was brimming with the possibilities and the glory when Caleb spoke up.  He raised his little voice to match my raised voice and suddenly, as is always the case when this kind of thing happens, the entire world quit moving.  Suddenly, there were no cars--no road noise.  The shop doors quit opening and closing.  The clocks that had been ticking ceased their workings for a few split seconds.  Even the birds and the wind and the airplanes and the fountains went silent.  A whisper at one end of Main Street would have been audible at the other.  And it was into this utter and complete silence that Caleb bellowed his answer, informing me, the lady, her poor, poor child and everybody else within earshot that, "No," he didn't think that kid was all that much.  "In fact," he went on to say, "the kid was actually kind of ugly.  His ears were big and his nose was all turned up and his eyes were squinty.  Like a rat."  As if this wasn't bad enough, Caleb ended by informing me (and all of Zeeland) that he had only said "hello" to the kid because "he felt sorry for him."

Well, I just stared at him in horror and disbelief as he continued to rattle off all sorts of uncomplimentary descriptions that reverberated off the buildings and up and down the silent streets.  Silent, that is, except for the wildly squeaking wheels of the lady's stroller as she pushed her child rapidly away from that horrible father and his nasty little son....

I mention this little episode partly as penance but also because it's the perfect example of how kids think and act.  If you ask for a child's opinion, you're going to get it.  They'll typically tell you exactly what they think.  Problem is, while they're usually honest, they don't always exercise the best judgment.

In an earlier article (which you can read HERE), I suggested that it's important to involve your kids in the process of decorating their rooms.  You should let them pick the colors, ask them what they like and what they hope to see in their rooms.  However, when you do that, you're going to have to be ready for some crazy answers from time to time.  In fact, when you ask an 8-year-old what colors he'd like on his walls, don't plan on hearing him say "Oh, a nice medium-beige with an earthy brown would do just lovely."  No, get ready for black and orange (halloween colors).  Or bright blue and red and yellow (Superman colors).  

So, with that said, if you do decide to let them help you decorate their own rooms (which I still believe to be a great idea), you better have a method in mind as to how to incorporate their ideas without completely abandoning the overall look of the room.  You both need to be happy with the outcome.  And that means compromise.  Here are 3 tips:

PICK AN ACCENT WALL

When your kids choose the brightest yellows and oranges, the flashiest greens and blues, a great compromise is to paint one of the walls--an accent wall--with one of those bright, flashy colors.  Have them settle on which color they like best and see if you can't work that into a small wall--a wall with a window or a door.  

Now, in most cases, when you paint an accent wall, you'd pick the focal point of the room to do this with.  In this case, however . . . well, not so much.  If you're trying to minimize the effect of the color, then picking the focal point of the room is the last thing you want to do.  Just pick a small wall--a wall that's not the first thing you see when you walk into the room--and see if you can't put their color there.  They'll be happy, feeling proud when they see their bright wall and you'll be happy because the room doesn't glow like the face of the sun.

PICK MUTED VERSIONS OF THEIR COLOR

Another great compromise that sometimes works in the paint store is to steer kids toward more muted versions of their colors.  If they love bright reds and yellows, maybe throw out some options like a rusty red or terracotta and a more muted yellow.  Sometimes they'll see these new colors and be completely willing to compromise.  Again, with this type of scenario, both of you can potentially reach a mutually happy outcome.

ACCESSORIZE, ACCESSORIZE, ACCESSORIZE

Perhaps the best way of working wild, crazy colors into a decorating scheme is to bring those colors in with accessories.  If your kids want to see black and orange or some other funky combination of colors on their walls, but you can't bring yourself to do it, then offer this:  coat the walls with a nice neutral color and then bring in accessories that fit your child's desired color scheme.  Bring in lampshades with bright colors, find art prints with the colors, switchplates and any number of other accessories that will serve to fill the room with the chosen colors without overloading the walls and driving you crazy.

THE BOTTOM LINE

The bottom line is this:  when you bring your kids into the decorating picture, you've got to be ready to compromise.  Don't let them decide everything when you hate what they're coming up with.  Likewise, don't decide everything yourself when they hate what you're coming up with.  You both have to be happy with the outcome for this little project to work.  If you hate the room, you're always going to feel irritated when you walk past it.  If they hate the room, don't worry, they'll find a way to let you know about it.  

So work together, have fun, and compromise!

Dental Neglect and Home Improvements

Proof that I have a tendency to stand like a lousy Super Hero.

The other night, we--my family and I--were sitting in the living room, watching the Tigers.  The kids were running around, driving us a little nuts and eventually there came a point when I stood up and put my hands on my hips.  (Which really, is something I wish I didn't do because my wife and kids always mock me and laugh and say that I think I'm a Super Hero.  Which I don't, the picture at the left notwithstanding.  I just happen to stand like one.)

At any rate, I stood up, put my hands on my hips and said, "Alright!  It's time to brush your teeth!"

Caleb, my 10-year-old son, just snickered, nudged Andrew, his younger brother, and whispered in a too-loud whisper:  "Look, Dad acting like he's Superman again."

I looked down and realized my hands were on my hips and my chest (or stomach) was all puffed out.  All I really lacked was a cape and tights.  And muscles.  And height. 

I thought for a second about how sad a Super Hero I would actually make before returning to the issue at hand:  "Go!  Go brush your teeth.  It's time for bed."

Well, they scampered off--all 5 of them--like a small heard of domesticated beasts.  But amidst the thundering of their stampede, I heard something I couldn't believe:  I heard Andrew--in confidential and extremely boastful tones--say the following:

"I haven't brushed my teeth in four days!"

To which Caleb responded with:  "Wow.  How do you get away with it?"

To which Andrew replied, "I fake it."

Well, at that point, I'd heard enough.  The last thing I need with 5 kids is for Andrew to start promulgating a gospel of dental neglect.  I stomped into the room, stood with my feet shoulder-length apart, straightened my back, puffed out my chest (or stomach), put my hands on my hips and said:

"Andrew Peter!  You will brush your teeth at least twice a day or...or..." I searched and searched for the right threat, the right punishment, the right ultimatum to level at this hygiene-negligent son of mine.  Ah, yes, that will do.  "Or, you will pay your own dental bills!"

Andrew's face clouded over and he looked down in defeat.  Then, he looked back up.  "Where am I going to get money for all of that?  I'm just a kid."

What?  Money for...?  He was trying to get me off-topic.  "It doesn't matter where the money comes from," I said.  "I'm saying you'll have to find it and pay the dentist for all the bills that you rack up because you don't brush your teeth."  

There.  A definitive closing argument.  Now, we should be able to move on.

"You mean 'pay him' like when I pay at the restaurant?  When you give me money and I pay?  Like that?"

His eyes were big and innocent and I couldn't tell if he was really curious or if he was messing with me.

"No.  Not like that.  You'll have to earn the money yourself."  

He paused.  Looked down, thinking.  Then his face brightened:  "Dad, the only money I get comes when I get Tooth Fairy money.  So if I'd lose all my teeth, I'd have enough money to pay the dentist, right?"  I started to respond that that didn't make any sense, but he kept rolling.  "But then, I wouldn't have any teeth to brush or any teeth to have to pay the dentist to drill, right?"  He was picking up steam now, the clear end of his logical masterpiece in sight.  "So then, I'd have all the money and I wouldn't have anything to pay the dentist for and, I wouldn't have teeth to brush.  I'd be rich."  He finished with a flourish and I half-expected the other kids to rise to their feet, clapping.

I needed to end this and I needed to end it now.  I puffed out my chest one more time, struck my pose and said, "Brush your teeth" in a very no-nonsense kind of way.

Caleb, who'd watched the whole exchange, snickered and said, "Superman has spoken--we must obey."

Well, that kind of broke the ice and we all laughed a little bit.  But I couldn't shake Andrew's desire to not brush his teeth.  I mean really, who intentionally tries to avoid brushing their teeth?  Who else but a kid would ignore such a simple project--especially when ignoring that project is only going to lead to expensive and painful work down the road?

I was just thinking those thoughts when the home improvement point hit me (yes, I've written enough blogs and radio segments about paint to see paint-related points in everything):  I'm doing the same thing he is--with the exact same consequences.

See, there are all sorts of little projects around my home.  A hallway ceiling that should be painted.  Kitchen cupboards that need to be touched-up.  Some peeling edges on my wallpaper that should be stuck back down. 

I've got all kinds of little projects.  Some are bigger than others, but most are really, just 10 and 15 minute jobs.  In the grand scheme of things, they take no time at all.  They cost almost nothing and they don't require loads of expertise or special tools.

And yet I routinely ignore them.  I do.  I don't know why.  I guess I'm like Andrew--I don't want to take the time to do these little fixes.  I just keep telling myself that it's not a big deal, that I'll get to it later.

But the problem with that line of thought is that failure to act now only causes bigger problems later.  Just like Andrew and his teeth, I'm saving time now, but I'm going to have to pay the piper, later.  And I'll have to use my own money to do it.

For example, the peeling wallpaper is a perfect case in point.  The spot I needed to fix was about 3 inches long all along a seam.  Nothing.  It wouldn't have taken any time or money or effort at all.  (Notice I've shifted to past-tense to talk about this).  A little dab of paste, some safe-release tape to hold it down for a few hours and it would have looked like new.  But I left it and didn't do it.  I ignored it.

But Tessa didn't.  She found it and, of course, figured it should be picked at, peeled, pulled at.  Well, one thing led to another and before long, she'd created a much bigger problem that took much longer to fix.  On top of it all, the fix I managed to come up with wasn't nearly as effective as the easier, cheaper one would have been.

So now, that's me and my family--what's your's like?  Are your kids brushing their teeth?  If not, do they brag about it, too?  Is that just a kid-thing?  Or do I have bad-hygiene kids?  And how about you?  Not so much your teeth, but do you have projects at home like I do?  Easy, quick projects you keep ignoring?

Well, maybe it's time to tackle them.  Maybe it's time to cross them off your list and deal with them on a more regular basis--before they become bigger, more expensive problems down the road.

Give it some thought!

Don't Poison the Waterhole: How to Keep Spiderwebs and Dirt Out of Your Paint

Here's Hannah.  You'd let her drink out of the water pitcher
wouldn't you?

OK, the other day I experienced something I hope never, ever, ever to experience again.  NEVER. EVER.

Let me explain.  It all started innocently enough while I got the kids their dinner the other day.  My wife was gone and I was in charge.  I made them spaghetti-O’s and then put a pitcher of water on the table.

They ate their food, made a mess, and eventually, finished.  I came behind, mopped everything up and wiped the table down and, finally, once they were all taken care of, sat down with my own dinner. 

As I ate, the kids came by, one by one, and told me EVERY single thing that happened during their day.  It’s great to be loved--for a while--and then it’s just mind-numbing.  Story after story went through my ears and eventually, I found myself sitting at the table--my food gone--and Hannah my 3 year old--sitting on my lap--still talking. 

My brain was thoroughly exhausted at this point, but I do remember grabbing the pitcher of water that was still on the table from the kids’ dinner and pouring myself a glass.  As Hannah went on and on and on about this or that, I took little sips of water and tried to understand what she was telling me. 

At some point, in the midst of all of this, I noticed that something wasn’t quite right.   I wasn’t immediately aware of what it was, and I tried to ignore the feeling, but my brain wouldn’t let me.  I took another drink of water and it suddenly hit me:  I was chewing.  I was done eating--had been done for a while--there was no food left on my plate . . . but here I was . . . chewing.

Now, drinking water is not normally, a chewing experience.  But here I was, sitting at the table, drinking water and chewing it.  And the more I thought about it, and focused on it, the more I realized I wasn’t chewing water--I was actually chewing something that was in the water.

Well, naturally, I quickly grabbed my glass and held it up to take a look and when I did, I was shocked--horribly, horribly shocked.  Instead of the clear, crystally liquid I had hoped to see, it was grey.  And murky.  Things were floating in there:  something that looked like a part of a meatball and something else that I was pretty sure was a spaghetti-O.  And there were other, unidentifiable things as well.  It was a smorgasbord of gray food products.  All suspended in a liquid that seemed, suddenly, thicker and heavier than simple water.

I put the glass down, swallowed the meatball I was chewing and picked up the pitcher of water.  A quick look inside revealed more of the same:  floaty things bobbing up and down in some gray, opaque liquid. 

And then I looked at the outside of the pitcher.  I saw small orange, spaghetti-o sauce handprints  on the handle.  A closer examination revealed orange lip marks around the rim.

I looked at Hannah.  “Did you drink out of the pitcher?”

She nodded and then said, “only twice.”


Well, apparently two times was enough for Hannah to poison the waterhole so to speak.   I grabbed the pitcher off the table and brought it to the sink.  And, as I did so . . . inspiration dawned:  This was a perfect illustration of a common mistake people make when painting. 

See, how many times have you started a painting project with some brushwork?  You know, you start brushing around the edges--around your windows or your doors or something like that.  Inside outside, it typically doesn’t matter.  When you do that, what do you typically do?  

And Here's the Paint Point...

I’ll tell you what most people do:  most people grab the paint bucket--the gallon of their paint--and carry it with them.  They dip the brush into it, wipe the excess paint off the brush on the rim of the can, and then paint. When the brush is empty, they go back to the bucket or more paint.

That’s like Hannah drinking out of the water pitcher.  If she had gone to her glass of water for a drink, she’d only contaminate that cup.  Everybody else’s water would have been fine.  But she went to the source and contaminated that.  Once that was done, there was no way to get the spaghetti parts and meatball chunks out of it.  The only fix was to pour the water out, rinse the container and fill it up with new.

With water, that’s no big deal.  But if you’re doing that with paint, you can create quite an expensive and frustrating mess.  If you brush into a spiderweb or pick up some dirt (this happens especially often when people are working outside), and then dip back into your bucket, you’ve instantly contaminated all of your paint.  And you’ll find that out when you start rolling it onto bigger areas later.  You’ll be picking little chunks of this or that out of the finish and you’ll be very frustrated.  

And here's the Answer...

The solution?  Work out of a smaller container.  We’ve got some at RepcoLite that are perfect for this, or you can just use an old tupperware-like container.  Whatever you decide to use, remember:  whenever you do brush work, always work out of a smaller container--it will protect the bulk of your paint from contamination.

Bad Days

Today's just for fun--and to let you know that we all have bad days.  For example:  last Thursday, I decided--against my better judgment--that I should go into the eye doctor.  I’d been dealing with a goopy right eye for a couple weeks and I was sick of it.  I’d talk to people in the store and they would see the tears running out of that one eye and they’d always be patting me on my arm and asking me if I was alright and stuff like that.  So, sick of everybody thinking I was crying all the time, I decided I should probably go to the eye doctor.

And so we made an appointment and learned that RepcoLite’s insurance plan has a $15 co-pay for trips to the eye doctor.  So, for $15, I figured I couldn’t go wrong.  Shows what I know.

See, I made an appointment for Thursday and drove down there.  I got into the room and they did all the preliminary stuff including that horrible dilating of my eyes.  Then the doctor came in and started doing a full eye exam.  I stopped him and said I was just here to figure out why I had goop eye.  He didn’t understand, so I showed him my gooey, drippy eye and after literally recoiling with disgust, he leaned in and looked at it.  He then asked if I would like a full eye exam.

Once again, I said no. I think he asked me three more times if I'd like a full eye exam and finally, eventually, I convinced him that I was only here to have my infected (or whatever) eye looked at.   Persuaded, finally, he leaned back in and gave my eye a serious looking-at. For a long time.  Back and forth.  Flashing lights and peering in with all sorts of equipment.  Finally, he was satisfied and leaned back in his chair.  He folded his arms and looked at me.  And then he asked me this question in this way:

“Do you ever wash your eyelid with soap?”

Now, the way he said it made me realize that he had discovered something and that it was going to be embarassing for me--potentially.  So my brain started spinning and I started trying to figure out exactly what answer he wanted.  At this point, I was less concerned with telling him exactly how things work and more interested in not looking stupid.  I tossed all the possibilities in my head:  If I say I wash my eyelids regularly with soap, I figured he’d say, “there’s your problem--soap irritation--everybody knows not to put soap by their eye, what’s wrong with you?”  However, I also figured that if I said, “nope, soap never gets within 10 feet of my eyelid”, I assumed he’d say” well what’s wrong with you, you pig?  You’re filthy.  A little hygiene never killed anybody. Just leave through the back door and go straight home and scrub.”

Do you see the dilemma?  I didn’t want to look dumb--I needed to figure out what he wanted me to say, but I didn’t know.  So we just sat there, looking at each other.  My gooey eye made squishy sounds as it blinked repeatedly.  Finally, I said, “Nope.  I don’t let soap get near my eye.”  

And of course, that was the wrong answer.

He said--and I quote--”it wouldn’t hurt to use a little baby soap around your eye--it’s dirty.”  He then wrote that on my paperwork--which will now be with me forever:  "Patient has dirty eye and displays profound inability to clean himself adequately--use latex gloves when handling."  He wrote that all down, I’m sure, and sent me out to the desk.

At the desk, the next blow came when I discovered the visit wouldn’t cost me $15 dollars, but $45. When I asked why, they explained it was because I didn’t have an eye exam.   (Imagine palm slap to forehead). 

Now, you’d think that was the end, right?  Nope.  They gave me those great big horrible sun glass things and sent me on my way.  I felt like I was 94 years old driving out of that parking lot and pulling onto the highway.  My eye was tearing up, my crazily dilated pupils were sucking in so much sunlight I could barely see and then, at a stop light, I pressed on my brakes and noticed that my foot went straight to the floor.

I though that was odd--unusual--not the way things normally worked--but then the light changed and I started going again.  I tested my breaks as best I could and realized that they weren’t working very well at all.  Something had gone wrong and now I had extremely limited breaks.

Think about that for a moment:  my eyes were dilated to the breaking point, I was wearing those huge sunglasses that shrouded the world in darkness, my goopy eye was tearing up and blurring my already limited field of vision and, to top it all off, I was driving down the road in a car that had almost no breaks.  If I hadn’t spent most of that drive just trying to stay alive and keep other people alive, I think it would have been hilarious.

In the end, I made it to the repair shop, parked my car, took off my big dumb sunglasses (because I didn’t want to look stupid) and then staggered blindly into the building, waving my arms out in front of me to make sure I didn't bang into the siding or another person.  

When I finally made it to the counter, I dropped my key there and the guy at the computer looked at me.  He saw my big goopy, drippy eye and said, in a very conciliatory tone:  “Bad day, huh?  Well, it’ll be ok.  Just tell us what’s wrong and we’ll get it fixed.”

Yeah, I'd been humiliated at the Dr’s office, dropped $45 bucks, lost the breaks on my car, was almost killed at least 5 times all in the hopes of fixing my eye and in the end, people talking to me still thought I was crying.

A New Chair for the Little Guy

Yesterday, I was sitting in my little cubicle at work, happily typing away on the computer, when I suddenly realized that the other people in the office were talking about me with a salesperson from Wyrick's Office Supplies. Talking and laughing.  Mostly laughing. 

See, let me backpeddle for a second and explain:  our Office Manager decided last week that it was time to buy  a new chair for me.  Mine is old, uncomfortable and miserable to sit in for any length of time.  (In fact, I'm pretty sure it was used in England in the middle ages as a device of torture.)  And so, it was decreed that I could have a new chair--hence the visit from the Wyrick's salesperson and the conversation that occurred yesterday.

Now, that's fine and I have no problem at all with people talking about me when they're buying me a new chair.  Or when they're buying me anything, really.  Especially electronics.  Buy me electronics and you have license to talk about me all you want.  It's one of my bylaws.  But in this instance, as I mentioned, along with the conversation, there was a lot of stifled laughter.  And also a lot of laughter that wasn't so stifled.  In fact, if I had to classify it, I'd rank the bulk of the laughter between a "guffaw" and a "belly-laugh". 

And so, after a few minutes of this, I tried to poke my head over my cubicle so I could see what was going on.  But, of course, I couldn't see over the cubicle because I'm . . . well . . . short.  And so I dragged a paint can over so I could climb on that and peak over and see what was going on.  As I did so, I heard the other people say, "Oh, he's dragging his paint can over now so he can peak over the cubicle and see what's going on."

And when I finally did manage to peak over the edge of the cubicle, everybody--salesman included--erupted in laughter that was definitely bordering on "belly-laugh".

Well, trying to maintain my dignity, I said, "What're you talking about?"

And the Office Manager simply said:  "We're picking out a chair for you."

Now, I may be short, but I'm not dumb.  I knew what was going on.  And so I said "Oh, you're trying to find a chair little enough for the short guy?"

And without missing a beat, the Office Manager explained that they were asking if Wyrick's could get a chair that had a little fold-out ladder thing "so you can clamber up into your chair."

So I can "clamber" up into my chair?  Rats and mice and other rodents clamber.  I'm more of a "jumper" or a "leaper".

At any rate, the minute she said that, everybody started laughing again and then the sales guy, in all seriousness, started flipping pages and said, "Well, I don't think I've got anything with a ladder . . . but here's a chair that automatically lowers itself to about 1 1/2 foot off the ground."  He then looked at me and I thought--for a horrible second--that he was going to whip out a measuring tape and try to see if I could manage to get into a chair that was 1 1/2 foot off the ground.  He was still undecided when someone else shouted:  "We could always just lift him up and put him in it every morning."

That seemed to satisfy the salesman and he went back to his catalog, flipping pages and pointing out different chairs that were apparently designed for the severely height-disabled.  Before he'd gone too far, my Office Manager chimed up again--sounding very serious when she did so:  "Can we have him try some of these out--you know, to make sure his legs don't swing back and forth all day long?  Because I bet that can get uncomfortable."

"Yeah," someone else shouted (it was amazing how many people wanted to take part in the "Buy Dan a Chair" discussion), "when my 8 year old nephews go for a ride in the car, their legs go to sleep when they have to have them dangling over their car seats...."

8 year old nephews?  Car seats?  Little dangling legs?  I cleared my throat--to let them all know I was still standing right there--but they didn't seem to care.  They were laughing, having a great time, looking at all the features that chairs come with and seeing which features might work for "the little guy."

Finally, I decided that nothing was to be gained by standing there listening to it all, so I threw in my two cents.  I said that since we were looking for features in a chair for me, I'd like most of all to have a chair that I could drive around the office--like one of those Little Rascals or those "Hoveround" chairs or whatever they're called.  You know, the ones that the old people drive to the Grand Canyon and then sit on the edge cheering?  Yeah, I'd like one of those. 

Think how awesome that would be:  Walking to the bathroom wouldn't be work anymore.  It'd be like being at Craig's Cruisers on the Go-Cart track all day long.  I could zip and weave around the paint cans and the shelves and the boxes.  I could drive out to the back of the plant to throw my coffee cups away in the dumpster and then I could drive back. I could drive over to the fax machine to send a fax.  Drive to the copy machine to make copies or scan stuff.  Drive to the printers, drive to the coffee pot, drive to my car at the end of the day and then hire somebody to drive my chair back to the office.  After they lifted me and put me in my car.  Because really, we must be honest here:  all that driving around instead of walking is likely going to take a toll on my leg muscles.

Yeah, I was just getting into the idea of having a Little Rascal chair of my own when the Office Manager killed my dream.  "You're not getting a Little Rascal.  The only bells and whistles you're getting on your new chair is a step-stool.  So you can get in and out without having to be helped."

And of course, that started the laughing up all over again.  I backed away and went back to my desk, dragged my paint can over to my old chair and clambered back onto the seat.  With my legs swinging happily over the edge, a good 4 inches from the ground, I fired up my computer and went back to work....  But really, I spent the rest of the day thinking about all the things I'd do with a Little Rascal.

Flux Nexometers and Water Stains

Well, I've got a flat tire.  Right now.  In fact, I'm writing this from the lobby of the tire repair shop.  And of course, to be perfectly honest, I'm kind of half-expecting someone to walk over to tell me, "Sir, the tire's all fixed and ready to go, but we decided to take a look around and noticed that that motor's leaking all kinds of Chromascopic oils and your Magnesium Regulator is completely empty.  On top of all that, your Obstingent Flux Nexometer is completely shot."  (I'm not a car person, so as intelligent as I sound, I just want you to know that I'm making up names...)

Anyway, the point is, I'm half-expecting someone to tell me about all that bad stuff and then follow it up with this:  "Now, the good news is that we can do all that.  In fact, Obstingent Flux Nexometers are our specialty.  The bad news, for you, is that all told, it's probably going to run somewhere between $400 and $7000 dollars.  We'll know more when we get under the hood...."

Yeah, I'm half-expecting that to happen--not because I'm a pessimist, but because I'm a realist.  I know how my life works.  And that Nexometer thing wouldn't surprise me at all.  

Anyway, the point is this:  I'm sitting in the lobby,  thinking about a good way to spend my time and I decided to write a blog entry for RepcoLite. 

But what to write about?  Hmmmmm.  My eyes drifted around the room and settled on some very noticeable water stains in the ceiling. And suddenly, I had a topic.

These water stains are everywhere.  Homes have them, businesses have them, churches have them.  And often, when folks find them in their place of business or in their basement, they're confused as to how best to repair them and get their ceilings looking good again.  And while I don't have a clue how to go about locating, much less changing an Obstingent Nexometer, I do know a thing or two about paint. 

So, if  you've got water stains on your ceiling or on some ceiling tiles, here's what you need to do to get things looking good again:

• First off, you need to fix the source of the problem.  This is absolutely a no-brainer, but believe me, people forget this all the time.  Repainting and sealing your water stains on the ceiling will be an exercise in futility if you don't first find the source of the problem and repair it.  Get a roofer out to your home if necessary.  Tighten your plumbing connections.  Install some heat tapes on your roof if the leaks are from ice backup.  Whatever you need to do, find the source of the leak and fix it. 

• Secondly, after you've fixed the source of the water problem, now it's time to tackle the issue from a paint perspective.  And the place to start, is with a good primer.  We recommend Zinsser's BIN Stain Blocking Primer.  It's a little expensive, but it works.  Everytime.  Period.  And that makes it worth it. At any rate, pick up a quart or a pint or whatever and spot prime all those rusty areas.

• Once the rust spots are primed, it's just a matter of painting your ceiling.  Don't waste your time trying to save time by touching up just those spots--that never works and you'll end up repainting the ceiling anyway.  So skip the "time-saving step" and go straight to a full paint job of your ceiling.  And for this, we recommend you use a good, waterbased ceiling paint in a finish of your choosing.

And that's it.  That's all that's necessary to painting over rusty water spots on your ceilings--whether your ceilings are plaster, drywall or even those drop-ceiling tiles.  It's a quick project and it will make a huge improvement in the look of your home or your business.

*** UPDATE ***

Just after I finished the post, the gentleman came out to tell me that my tire was fixed.  When I got to the counter, he told me "We took a look at everything else and noticed that your brakes are failing.  You should probably get it in soon and we'll get them fixed up."

I asked him, "Uhhh, how much does that typically run?"  I tried to be cool and hip--to act like money didn't matter and that I was just asking because I like to know things, but my voice broke and I sounded like I was starting to cry.  

He looked up--startled--and quickly said, "Oh, it could be anywhere from $150 to $600.  We won't know until we start looking."

I drove away a little depressed, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I should just be happy that my Obstingent Flux Nexometer is still working.