My husband is bored of me.
That may be an understatement. When he sees me coming he gets a kind of twitch, and if I corner him for a conversation, at the first pause he literally runs.
The problem is paint chips. I can't stop talking about them.
Hubby would be more sympathetic, I think, if we actually had to make a decision about paint colours anytime within, say, the next two months. But ground-breaking for the new house starts today: right now the house I am so assiduously decorating in my mind is little more than a few sheets of paper and a big hole full of muddy water.
With classes over for the year, paint has rushed in to fill the vacuum left by literature and grammar. Sure I've got exams to mark, but I also have magazines to read and important decisions to consider. Is Whitall Brown too dark for all four walls of the Master Bedroom? And if I pair it with Natural Wicker, can I put the lighter colour on just one wall, or would that look weird?
This is by no means the first obsession I've encountered in my life, though it is one that clings with a certain tenacity. I went through a phase where all I wanted to talk about was the Turin Shroud. That one gave hubby the twitches too, but at least it had a certain appealing improbability, a quirky charm. At one time, figure skating was my obsession: I would cancel social events just so I could watch the latest in that post-Nancy-Kerrigan era of tacky professional competitions dubbed "U.S.A. vs. the World" or "Battle of the Sexes."
Bub is the same way: he latches onto a single interest with obsessive intensity, but then moves on in a week or two. At one time it was The Cat in the Hat, then Thomas trains, and now closure devices: buttons, zippers, backpack latches, watch closures. I can readily imagine this trait in him developing one day into the specialized interest characteristic of autism, but right now it seems more like evidence that he is my son, heir to the genetic traits that I'm currently inflicting on my restless, long-suffering spouse.
I am comforted, though, to discover (through the magic of Google Image) that I am not alone in my appreciation for paint chips. People have turned paint chips into graphic art posters, ribbon holders, business-card holders, and wallets. It's like there's a whole blogosphere out there devoted to turning paint chips into fun craft projects. (Do they call the craft-blog world the craftosphere?) For those of us who specialize more in wordcraft than in arts and crafts, paint chips are equally compelling. I, for instance, am slightly embarrassed that the current front-runner for my kitchen is called "Nacho Cheese," but I love the fact that my living-room colour is "Kennebunkport Green" (I'm a sucker for the pseudo-elitist New England glamour of the Benjamin Moore Historical Colours line. And I will insist on spelling "Colours" with a "u" just so I can retain my Canadian citizenship.)
Needless to say, my blogging is suffering from this diversion of my mental energy. So humour me, if you will, and tell me: What do you think of these colours?
Any advice/horror stories/anecdotes to share about the wonderful world of paint-colour selection?