The distressed perspective

The whole time we lived in North Carolina, I wanted to paint the huge cabinet that anchored our family room. When the piece was unloaded from the truck that brought it to our house– part of a generous load of furniture donated by friends of friends– I saw it and was delighted. I’d always wanted a grown up cabinet like that– one made of real, heavy wood, with actual doors, and that didn’t require assembly. I wasn’t wild about the light oak finish, but I was so excited to see it in place that I decided we’d move it in, then move it out for refinishing when I’d made up my mind what it ought to look like.

One problem: real furniture? I mean, the stuff that doesn’t come flat-packed from IKEA? It is heavy. As in, “Three grown men are needed to get this thing to budge” heavy.

So yeah, it went into the living room. And there it stayed, taunting me with its almost-perfect presence. See, it held our tiny, 22 inch television out of view. It housed all of our Bibles, my knitting projects in progress, our family’s treasured collection of Three Stooges DVDs (don’t judge), our big binder of audio CDs, the baby’s entire collection of toys, and a whole drawer of burp clothes and cloth wipes at the ready. It was an absolute workhorse that kept all of that stuff close by but invisible. Except …

It needed to be white.

Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did. Trapped inside that 1997 blond oak Thomasville entertainment cabinet was a farmhouse-inspire distressed white catch-all waiting to get out. All it needed was some paint… and three big guys to move it here, there, and yonder.

Well, it never happened in North Carolina. So I knew– knew— that before it made it into the family room here at the barn, it needed to be dealt with right off the bat, or I’d spend the next twenty years looking at that yellowy oak and kicking myself. This is why when my guys unloaded it here, I told them to leave it in the back (unfinished) end of the barn and do not pass go.

“You going to paint it?” my husband asked.
“Yeah,” I admitted.
“What color?”
“White.”
“Oh. Ok.”

So we went out and got paint, and Mary Hannah, Mathaus, and I spent the better part of an outrageously hot Tennessee afternoon figuring out just how, exactly, one applies chalk paint. Mathaus expressed skepticism multiple times, but Mary Hannah and I were not to be dissuaded. The next day, we took sandpaper to it. Then we both took a step back and admired our handiwork.

“Oh, I like it!” Mary Hannah cooed.
And I admitted that I, too, was impressed. Not only had the chalk paint lived up to the hype (we used a tiny portion of a can and the cheapest chip brushes I could find per advice from blogland) but I really, really liked the way it looked. Used. Loved. Loyal.

I flagged some of the guys to move it inside, so the wax could be applied at room temperature.

“Um, aren’t you going to finish painting it?”
“There’s a whole spot here where the paint has rubbed off.”
“Did you mean to do that?”

After I assured the Y chromosome contingent that this was a distressed piece of furniture, I was finished painting it, we had taken off the paint in that section and yes, we meant to do that, they rolled their eyes and moved it in. The jokes as they struggled to heave it through the house were fast and furious.

“If we hit it against the wall, does that distress it more?”
“Whoops! You might have to touch up this area here.”
“Careful! This thing has been professionally abused! Don’t mess it up!”

Ha, ha.

Anyhow, it was moved into place, waxed, and finally declared finished. It looked perfect. Exactly how I had imagined it would. As I walked to the corner of the room, trying to get a feel for how it would look with a few things on the wall above it (and patting myself on the back for a Pinterest-worthy paint job) I realized John Mark was edging up to my side.

He gave me his biggest, most encouraging smile and looped his hand over my arm.

“You decided not to finish painting it, huh? Just going to leave it like that? It’s o.k. I don’t think anyone will notice, Momma.”

Sigh.

At least the women like it, right?