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.

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:

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.

Stage one: amputating Aggressive Floral Wallpaper™ from the wall. (For complete understanding of my hatred and loathing, see the entry from two days ago.)

Just so you all know - commenting should work properly on cat.net now. Suffice it to say I'm a dork, and I should be a bit more careful when I upload files. Carry on. Comment, or something. (I already hear you getting ideas, Mr. Cavanagh. Quiet, you.)

While I have your attention, I'd also like to note that should I get my hands on the previous owners of this house (preferably while in the jurisdiction of a country that has no laws on murder) I really should do some unspeakable things to their corpses.

Just to make a point.