We watch the strangest stuff around here. Possibly the only thing stranger than a couple who intends to remain childless watching a show about human reproduction is hearing said couple's comments during the course of the show.

If someone starts showing me a laparoscopic view of actual human ovary as it's trying to, well, ovulate, of course I'm going to start providing Gary Larson-style commentary:

*hand puppet*

"Hi, I'm an ovary."

(Perhaps it was funnier if you were there.)

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"
- Jonatha Brooke, 'Deny' (bonus track from _Steady Pull_, 2001)

It's a chorus, really; voices in my head taking on the voices of two particular friends, taking their words, doubling, tripling them until the sounds of their voices drown out my own.

Hairstylist: "Hrm. You have a lot of hair. I think we're going to need a stronger ponytail holder than this one." More pictures are forthcoming, but I have a photo that I will terrify those of you who know me well. Who is this and what did she do with the real Amy?

Part two of two. Yang: light.

...and yet, it isn't all sadness; there are hours and days in which the sadness doesn't come, and making a last-minute run to the store to buy crayons leaves you laughing, marveling at how the streams of light from the snarled traffic on the other side of the road remind you of nothing but a long string of Christmas lights.

Life's like that.Or, as gleefully said to Heather earlier today:

Part one of two. Yin: darkness.

In the process of moving on, there's an ill-defined moment when it's time to move the hell on with your life, because you've exhausted all the Magic Friend Juju your friends have to spare, and they just don't know what to do with you any more. If you're lucky, you realize you've worn out your welcome about five minutes before your friends realize it, and you get the hell out of Dodge to finish scabbing yourself over, hoping your friends acknowledge you when you next drag your ass back into town.I did that about a year ago. Learned to shut up, mostly because there comes a point when the one thing you absolutely can't stand is the look of pity, the sound of words that are meant to be comforting, but distorted through a haze of anger and grief come out as ...

noise.