It's Not Pink & Anime J

I've reached a new level of neurotic: instead of selecting one of many fine colors prepared by Behr or Glidden or even Martha Stewart Living, I have indulged a childhood fantasy and have, however ill-advised, started mixing my own paint colors. The only problem with this practice is knowing when to STOP tinkering with a color. See exhibit A: the laundry room. We tested out a million different colors (all with corresponding made-up names such as Yucky Green and Hells No Blue) and I finally decided on a bold, bold move: one wall "Anime J" (the color of Jason's eyeballs if he was an Anime character - the color directly behind my head in the photo) and one wall "It's Not Pink" (it's not Pink... it's clay pot / terra cotta / peach-esque). The result is kind of hideous, but so dramatically, vibrantly, shockingly hideous that I'm tempted to leave it for a while. Painting this wall It's Not Pink has somehow made the truth sink in -- this is MY house and I can paint the walls whatever color I want to, even if it is ugly, and nobody can tell me not to! Interesting, how tearing off the roof, busting up bathroom fixtures and tearing out whole walls didn't *quite* do this for me. I think that all those things were just so responsible and productive that it wasn't until I did something foolish that the real power of home ownership became manifest. That, and sending in my first mortgage payment. Oof.

At the same time as I proceeded to turn the laundry room into a Cinco de Mayo inspired playhouse, Jason talked some sense into my decision for a classy, elegant bedroom floor... yet we still managed to create a custom stain by mixing Rosewood, Golden Oak and Cherry. We laid down a solid Rosewood (a rich, dark stain) and then rubbed a coat of Golden and Cherry into the grain over top, to bring out the highlights. Jason got to name this one -- he calls it "Black Cherry" and every time he says it, I sing the one line I know from the Goldfrapp song.

Dickens, however, disapproves of the stinky stages of home improvement. He behaved himself for the most part, only chewing on the dried stain stick once and tracking a tiny little bit of It's Not Pink onto the It's Still Gold arm chair. Then, after a bit of a bath, he hid in a box to make his displeasure known.