Fear not. I am away, yet not; I'm just in another room. Painting again.

Yes, after six years of living here, I am finally tackling the enormous problem that is The Scourge Of The Beige.

Yep, I'm finally working on painting the living room, foyer, and reading room. Since these rooms are all open to each other, they need to be the same color if at all possible. (Those of you who have been to our house are probably thinking, "Don't you need to do the kitchen as well?" The answer to that is yes, but that room has floor-to-ceiling wallpaper and will be dealt with eventually. Just not now.)

My bones sang 'done' before I could even get off the ladder. Even though the notes were a bit premature, I let them come anyway. Only when the tape was down and the first coat of touchup paint was applied did I really allow myself to think 'done' and mean it.

Even now, the word is still debatable, but my relief is not.

Do interior painting even once and you learn the dance: tape up, paint up, tape down, patch areas of missing color with new wall color, patch areas of new-color overspray with the trim color. Get off ladder. Sleep.

Almost there, kid.

I started yanking the tape down in earnest at seven-thirty tonight, and within thirty minutes the striped Medusa pile lay in the entranceway, ready to grab the pants leg of anyone who ventured too close. After the tape was down, I picked up the bucket of red paint and began to clean up lines made ragged by the tape's removal.

"oh my Lord
why's it taking you so long
to give me grace
and the dignity to right these wrongs"

It took me three days to paint the master bedroom, three days of Jeff-awayness that meant I spent most of my painting time trying very very hard to coax sprightly conversation out of my painting utensils (and failing, I might add). The first two days were spent painting and doing chores at a rather leisurely pace, since I believed I had until Thursday night to complete the painting of the room.

Last night's phone call changed that. "I'm coming home a day earlier than planned."

Captain's log: Day 6,351,287. I have survived great olfactory evil. Why did it not occur to me that chemical solutions strong enough to denature wallpaper paste were strong enough to cause a queasy stomach - until after the fact? Why do I always manage to find the slowest cashier at a Wal-Mart on any given day? Why does Edmund persist in giving Tenzing unprovoked bites to his ass?

I don't hate the bathroom yet. Pretty fishtank. Lovely fishtank. I also don't hate wallpaper. I just hate the paste that holds it to the nearest wall.

Errata: for those of you who haven't checked the dragon*con website lately, Godhead and Voltaire have been added to the lineup. I'm pleased. I've never managed to catch any of Voltaire's legendarily-funny dragon*con shows, so hopefully I'll be able to make time to see him this year. Godhead is fantastic to crew for. They're respectful and friendly to tech staff, and just a genuine pleasure to work with. I'm with Jody on this one; I wouldn't be surprised if they're a Saturday headliner, and I certainly would be happy with the choice if they were.

Even though I'm fascinated by the concept of wall paint, I'm still a little afraid of it. Even after years in stark-white dormitory housing, my mind is still shaped by the sixteen years spent in a house whose walls consisted of wood paneling.

Paint needs a progress bar. Appearances are deceiving; what appears to be dry might well be a skin of darkened paint hiding a pool of liquid waiting to stain you.

I am finding green in places that should not, on humans, be green. A fine speckle has set upon the hairs of my head like so much confetti, and on my face like pixie freckles. I have scrubbed most of the paint away from my fingertips, except for the thin line where my nails meet my skin.

There, I am still green.

Had I been less angry, I would have been less green, I think. I am my mother's daughter; when I am upset or angry, my hands latch upon a task - any task will do, whatever is at hand. At hand were paintbrushes, a gallon of green paint, and walls unable to flee my wrath.

Proof positive that anyone seeking the rottenest of the felines doesn't have to go much further than the foyer of my house. As usual, the little darlings (and I say that with all the latest in dripping-sarcasm technology) have been extraordinarily helpful with all house chores and activities, ranging from reading to room-painting.

(Click on a photo to get a larger version.)

Think you're going to be the only one sitting in that chair? Think again:

Anyone wishing to sit on this couch will need to contact the owner, who is currently unavailable at the moment due to an unfortunate and unforeseen encounter with a rogue sunbeam:

Saturday afternoon. The day's rains were half-completed before we ventured out. Ask anyone who has lived here long enough and they'll tell you it's true: it never rains just once in Alabama summertime. Always twice. First time it comes down as rain, and the second time it comes back up as steam.

Homeowners with sense have all their outdoor projects completed before the onset of June, because the heat and humidity have a persistence and insidiousness that can hand you heat exhaustion before you're done with your work.