Well-intended / Krista Richards Mann

I've seen my share of home makeover shows. In the course of a commercial break, rooms are transformed, curtains hung and walls painted brilliant and daring colors. There's a gasp of delight at the end of the half hour when the decorating is revealed to the dwellers.

A tally of the cost of renovations punctuates the bottom of the screen. All this for less than $1,000!

I was given the keys to our new place on a Tuesday. The kids were skiing in the Tetons with their father and wouldn't be back until Monday evening. I had nearly a week to transform our new home into a darling dream cottage.

I come from a long line of overly ambitious can-doers. If I wanted a dress for the winter formal, my mother and I chose the taffeta and crinoline together and she gathered and stitched the frothy numbers that I wore with teased curls and sparkly nail polish. My grandfather always smelled of sawdust, whipping shelves and birdhouses out of his garage as quickly as my grandmother could leaf through magazines. My grandmother glues stuff. Her mother gardened. Certainly, I could convert our new home into something delightful.

The first step was not so glamorous. I had to clean. I filled garbage bags with dryer lint and cat hair while a storm blew by streaked windows. At night, I investigated paint.

I don't understand all the nuances of indoor air quality, but I do know that the insides of our homes are often more polluted than smoggy city air. I was going to do nothing to contribute to that or to the toxicity of the soil once the home becomes the Westport's next teardown of the week. And so, I decided on no VOC paint. After a bit of research, I fell in love with the promise and color pallet of Mythic paints. My daughter's bedroom would be a light shade of pink, "lady friend." The vinyl kitchen floor could be painted turquoise, "9teen 5ifty 9." My bedroom would be a moody gray, "chapel spire," and my son's an adventurous, "safari dress." With a non-toxic paint there would be no smell. And besides, I would have to breathe the fumes and wear the spills.

I ordered the paints from Brandman's, a local paint center and picked it up the next morning. The guys at Brandman's were helpful even as they unlocked the doors as I came in for more supplies. The first morning I needed a better brush. Certainly the drips and smudges must be caused by the inferior quality of bristles. Then, I dropped an entire gallon of "atrium white" in the entry. Fortunately I had an emergency roll of Bounty, which, I used to sop up as much as I could from the primary puddle. The splattery drips were scrubbed off of the ceiling and stair rails with a rag and my favorite Savon de Marseilles. I am still finding them in my hair. I spoiled a favorite pair of leather gloves and some Nikes in the accident, but managed to salvage my coat. I later learned that major paint spills should be nudged into a glob with two pieces of cardboard and poured back into the container. I hope to never again need this information.

Even though I primed, "morning song" didn't seem to cover the green that formerly colored the kitchen. The trick to that, I now know, is to tint the primer to match the color. I pestered the Brandman's guys for more masking tape. I was heavily tape-dependent. I bought tiny rollers and a ceiling edger, as well as more roller covers to make up for those I didn't wash well enough and dried crispy by the fourth morning. A good tarp might have served me well, but that's where I chose to save money.

It was exciting for the first few days. I was marking my territory; nesting. Before long I would be arranging china in the cupboard and lighting pillar candles. The kids' rooms would be decorated. I envisioned a relaxing retreat for my daughter and an Indiana Jones adventure room for my son. I imagined their thrill as they walked through the door. Home!

Painting took a bit longer than I anticipated. I ate yogurt and swilled Diet Coke (kept cool on the back porch), slept on an air mattress and washed my hands in a crock-pot filled with water. (I hadn't had the propane hooked up yet to hear the water heater.) The colors were gorgeous and if I was industrious and creative enough so too would be our home.

A week after the kids' return, I am still painting. A couple rooms are unfinished; the edges of my bedroom still require some "chapel spire." The hand-painted cherry blossoms that are to enhance the corner of my daughter's room are still only sketched on a notepad. And if you are in my bathroom, I suggest you don't look up. The Indiana Jones-themed room sports a poster that hasn't been hung and we had to rip the molding off the kitchen floor to squeeze in the refrigerator.

But, I've touched nearly every surface of our new home now. And it feels as if it is genuinely ours.

Krista Richards Mann shares her "Well-intended" column with the Westport News every other Friday. She can be reached by e-mailing kristarichardsmann@gmail.com