"Of course, you will still have to paint the front some day" says the owner of the tiny home on the day of my first viewing.
"Yes," I reply laxly, already headlessly in love with the house. Then I throw a glance full of devastating disrespect at the scratchy wooden wall. I'll put a pot of paint on it and it'll
Then I sign the contracts at the beginning of January, renovate the entire interior completely by myself in 16 days (and nights...), die in the hospital for a while and go on a big Road Trip across Europe. When I return in mid-March, I realize that I have exactly six weeks left to take care of the outdoor facade before I will fly to the USA all summer long. I look at the wood more closely for the first time. It's old, pealed off, defenceless to the weather and looks like goat shite.
"You really should paint that!" a neighbor yells from his bike while he is driving by. I want to throw a banana peel in his way.
Then I go in, get one of the folding rules that I haven't broken yet, and fold it apart in the worng way. I ram it into the ground of the garden and lean it against the wall, which is of course much higher than the stupid rule. The neighbor is coming back. "Haha, do you still have a folding rule?" he shouts. Yes - and shortly afterwards also a new large construction site. Here comes Mission Paintng the Outdoor Facade! With a crooked ladder, etching paint and the unconditional will to transform my Tiny House optically into a real American Cabin!
"Of course everything has to be sanded down first," he says by the way, as if I had asked if the hot chocolate is also available with cream.
"Everything?" I ask while a heat wave grabs me.
"Yes, everything," he replies and walks away.
"Can I rent a machine for that?" I yell after him hoarsely. I slightly remember sanding my pallet table by hand at half past one at night and my mobile phone not recognizing my fingerprint afterwards.
"Yeah, back in the building materials department. There's rental equipment."
I get a little hemorrhage. Then I turn around and walk towards the hall. Okay. We have to sand the entire front. We'll figure that out. It may take one day. Sort of.
The guy in the department is showing me a tiny sanding machine.
"I do have a whole house!" I protest.
"Well, then you'll have to cross the street, there's the construction machinery store. They also lend large equipment."
So I'm moving my ass into the rival firm. There are shovel-chain-widget monsters already decorating the entrance for which one certainly needs driving licence class F for "fat".
Five minutes later I reserved a big sanding machine. For Friday, 7 in the morning. We don't want to file fingernails here!
Wood stain. Protective color. I drop the big bucket on the meadow. Dark brown. I want to paint the entire house dark brown. Above all the dog-poop-ocher at the annex is strongly getting on my nerves. Probably the previous owners were blind. Or just had a terrible taste. When I open Pandora's can, deadly etching stench comes out. I get a lung insufficiency for some seconds and then I start painting courageously.
"That's a job for someone who killed his father and mother," my neighbour yells motivatingly.
"Yes," I say cheerfully, while one leg of the ladder slides straight into the gravel and I sprinkle the poison all over my face. "I'm freaking out with joy!"
But somehow I realize that I'm actually really freaking out enormously with joy. The sanding action only had the effect that my house looked even more like a pyre. So with the paint finally some visible improvement shows up. I also totally love DIY and everything I can do to improve and design my Tiny Home and make it into my dream refuge. It's my little, big heart project.
After only eight hours I am finished and have glazed the complete house including the roof ridge once. My arms fall off, my neck rolls up and I have three and a half fingernails left - again. But there is only one feeling that describes everything: awesomeness!