An ode to mascarpone OR "how I learned to just let go and fall in love with Benjamin Moore AF-20"

I found you. I finally found you after all this time. Amidst the disorienting flurry of 140+ white swatches from Benjamin Moore, I found you like an oasis in the desert. After 66 swatches and one entire week of deliberation, you saved me. I owe you everything, but most especially my sanity.

Oh, AF-20 how do I love thee? Let me count the ways!

I love your colloquial name. Mascarpone. Much more favorable than gross OC-85 Mayonnaise. Sure, I get confused with the placement of that pesky 'r' and I undoubtedly mispronounce you every single time I order another gallon but still. You remind me of your namesake cheese and I love cheese. So much. Almost as much as you. Almost.

I love your perfect white color. A flawless white white if such a thing exists. No purple drops like that weird OC-100 Palace White. Not dingy in artificial light like CC-912 Linen White. You are crisp without being stark. You are creamy and warm without a trace of color. Although, when I was painting in the early morning light I thought for sure you were yellow and I admit, you had me scared shitless. But then you tricked me by drying beautifully. Well played, Mascarpone. Well played.

Oh, AF-20, I love you so much I want to have you forever! I want to paint every surface in your beautiful, warm glow! I am a woman obsessed. I would drink poison and pretend to die so that you could drink poison and really die and we would be together forever. Star-crossed lovers, you and I.

Can't wait to see you in another room soon.
Love always,
P.

p.s. let me also take an opportunity to sing the praises of my very dear pet favorite, Benjamin Moore OC-117, Simply White. You don't have any gray like CC-20 Decorator's White. You are absolutely luscious for a clean, bright bathroom. Thanks to you, bathroom reading material is no longer necessary: I can sit and meditate on the beautiful walls instead.

Blush and Bashful.

Dear Benjamin Moore Paints:

This is what I want listed on the back of your paint swatches: "SIMPLE COLOR NAME: Cool undertones, will clash horrendously with yellows, etc."

This is what I get listed on the back of your paint swatches: "PEACEFUL FLUTTERING DOVE TAIL: OC-117"

So. Re-painting the guest bedroom and bathroom is officially on the list of to-do projects-- mostly because my mom is visiting in two weeks. In my mind's eye, I envision a light, bright -and yet warm- paint palette, flowing effortlessly from the 1940s cottage to the modern extension. [For the record: PB has given official stamp of approval of said vision]

We decided on a clean, white bathroom and neutral bedroom. Simple enough, yes? NO.

I spent an hour at Benjamin Moore, staring at a wall of colors. Oh, and don't be fooled: the "Color Preview" colors are almost entirely the "Classic" colors, but with fancier names. This is a fact, relayed to me by Jeremy, an actual employee of Benjamin Moore Paints. Anyway, what did I leave with? No less than 44 swatches of varying shades of white. White. Based on the fact that apparently, many of them are the same but with different names, I may have only picked up 6 different colors. Who knows....

All I do know is that I spent the rest of my afternoon with swatches taped to the bathroom wall. I would stare at the wall. Turn the lights on. Turn the lights off. Open the window blinds. Close the window blinds. Each time expecting one color to jump out at me. I believe in psychotherapy, repeating the same behavior with the expectation of a different result is a symptom of insanity...

And to make the process more enjoyable, the colors I was scrutinizing carried infuriating names like, "Palace White," "Simply White," "Snowfall White," "Glacier White," and "Atrium White." I feel "Simply White" was positively taunting me. Benjamin Moore, do you have a paint color called, "Blood-Splattering-Head-Wound Red"? Because that's what color the walls will be after the anxiety of choosing between 44 whites forces me to take my own life. Honestly.

All I could do was replay the Steel Magnolia pre-wedding scene in my head: "My colors are blush and bashful." "...Your colors are pink and pink."

Yup. Because when I look at "Vapor" and "Steam" taped to the bathroom wall I can't help but think, "White" and "White."

Uphill battle.

On Saturday, I worked on my yard for the first time. Ever. Yes, I closed on my house March 1st and have been inhabiting said house for about 90 days...we've had quite a bit of rain, so you can guess that things are, well, growing.


A truly unfortunate fact about my darling house is that the landscaping is heinous in every way. Truly, an offense to the eyes. I mean, it is absolutely the most random configuration of hideous plant-y things I've ever seen. Naturally, a fact that is magnified by my neighbor's pristine, flawlessly manicured lawn with newly up-lit trees. Bastards.


Allow me to set the scene: imagine a cute little house sitting atop a steeply sloping lawn. Now, imagine that lawn covered in the following: some cactus, a rosemary bush, two rose bushes (placed nowhere near each other), a couple crepe myrtles (sure why not?), some yuccas, a very tall branchless tree, some other unknown bushes. Oh, and don't forget the cutesy rusted wagon wheel, hanging from a dead tree stump. Because that gem'll save the yard! Idiots.


Anyway, here's what I've learned about yard work:

• It's crap. Don't do it ever. Honestly, I now envy those people who just loooooooove to work in their yards on the weekend. With their perfectly calloused hands and awesome wide-brimmed hats. You wanna know what I positively loooooove about working in my yard? Paying someone else to do it so I can lay by the pool and have a drink.
• Apparently, you're supposed to regularly keep up with yard work so that it's not such a beat down. I didn't get the memo....lesson learned.
• There will come a moment -somewhere into hour two- in which you realize you've created a bigger, uglier mess than which you started. It's like that moment when you decide to completely re-organize your closet, only to find yourself sitting in a pile of Jordache acid wash jeans and novelty socks, overwhelmed to the point of nervous breakdown.
• Speaking of which, I chopped all this shit without having any plan for cleanup...again, lesson learned.
• Ok, ok. Truth be told, there is something fantastically cathartic about taking a 14" pair of steel sheers and hacking away.

All in all, I accomplished a bit of good. But only a bit. There is definitely some sort of killer weed destroying everything in it's path; no lie: it started growing up my front windows. Quite literally overtaking the house...and I tell you, this thing has roots. The more I pulled, the more came up...it had literally grafted itself onto just about everything, in an effort to choke out all traces of life. In a flash of dread, I realized the whole thing felt very Hitchcock. Very, very Hitchcock.


Things are "cleaned up" now, although I use the term loosely. Frankly, the bushes (shrubberies? what's the diff?) are reminiscent of this haircut I got in the 8th grade...I wanted something very cool, very short, very Claire Danes (at the moment). I ended up with a sort of mutated mushroom look. I learned later that my hairstylist was fired for being a meth addicted speed freak, with a real penchant for inhaling mountains of coke.


Go figure.