Tuesday, May 14, 2002

Four Days till She Gets Here

I have four days to heal the lawncare blisters on my hands, treat the mosquito bites and unidentified outdoor rashy things, rake up the hedge trimmings on my lawn, Miracle Grow the plants, detail my car, wash the birdshit off my driveway, wash seven more loads of clothes, mop and wax the kitchen floor, clean the bathroom grout, bleach the kitchen counters, groom the kitties, clean their horrid room, dust, vacuum, bug bomb (this is Texas, after all), then turn to myself and pluck, tweeze, exfoliate, shave, pumice, lather, rinse, repeat, peel, moisturize...and iron a few pairs of pants.
Not only that, I have a business meeting on Friday morning way across town, and those guys will expect me to pay attention!
Zed is nervous, and she asks if I am nervous. Right now I am too tired to be nervous.
I'll be nervous at the airport when I see her cute little Canuck face for the first time.
I wish someone would invent an instrument that you could aim at people and get a true picture of if and how much they like you on first sight.
I'd want settings for business and pleasure, and then a special button to discern sexual attraction. May as well throw in a bullshit detector too, but that could be a small, flashing yellow light on the side of it.
I suppose I could ask her to take a polygraph test when she gets here, but somehow that lacks a certain savoir faire.
When Al Gore invented the Internet, he sure as hell didn't plan for this type of scenario.

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