At least it wasn't a Velvet Elvis

You know the cliché of a newly married couple joining their households, and he comes home two weeks after the honeymoon to find his prized fourth grade spider collection in the garbage? and all of a sudden his college beanbag springs an irreparable leak that closely resembles a knife slash?


We didn't have that problem.  Mostly because we'd just been through our divorces.  I never had much furniture to start with, but after my ex had picked through the last of what he wanted, I threw out the loveseat and the recliner. It was ugly to start with, free and/or hand-me-down from his family, and peeling.  I had no guilt whatsoever.

Mr Lemon was just glad to get out of his marriage and didn't have much besides his clothes.  Literally.  His replacement even managed to make off with his tools and fishing gear.  So we were more than happy to start over furnishing our itsy bitsy apartment with furniture we chose as a couple.

One thing that irked him to no end was how his ex-wife got the wall decorations that his grandmother bought and gave to them.  She snuck them to her parents' house so they were not counted in with their joint property. So classy.

Early last year she magnanimously gave them back.  I didn't know what they actually looked like, Mr Lemon just let me know he was bringing them home one time when he dropped Splenda back off to her.

They aren't hideous by any stretch of the imagination, but they are ... dated. They remind me of the peach and green decorations of 1989 that my mom was oh-so-proud of in our dining room.  That sound you hear is my sister cackling and my mom saying indignantly, "I loved those decorations!" Yeah ... that room, and all the Home Interior parties Jessica and I suffered through because her best friend was an interiorator.  And yes, I just made up a new word out of nowhere.

I privately told my friend, "Those pictures have a life expectancy of - oh, about three years on my wall before they mysteriously fall down and shatter into a million pieces."

But seeing all the rave about oil-rubbed bronze spray paint gave me inspiration.  I forced him to window-shop some living room furniture with me, and we found a collection we were both happy about.  Later that day, I gingerly brought up the subject of desecrating the faux-gilt frames with a more subtle, muted shade of something, ANYTHING.  He received that word of encouragement graciously, and gave his blessing.

I picked up a can of Rustoleum Hammered Brown spray paint and wisely decided to test the waters with an old mirror.

Y'all.

Thank GOD I did not start with the big frames.  It really honestly looked like a kindergarten craft at art time.

So, THAT was my pathetic debut into the DIY blog world, and I still don't know what we're going to do with the pictures on the wall.  But at the very least I've proven that it takes more than a can of spray paint and reading about someone else's experience to turn my living room into an opportunity to brag about doing it myself.  :)