by Melody Bowen
Page One
My boyfriend Ned is coming to visit this week, and I was just hit with the realization that he will be here in less than 36 hours. Thirty-six owwww---eerrrrssss! Woohoooooo! I can't wait to see him. It's been at least 300 months (translation: 3 weeks) since I last saw him. It feels like it's been 300 months, anyway, especially in light of the fact that I've done little other than cough, wheeze and sneeze for the past week.
I stayed home from work again today, still recovering from the flu, so my preparation for his visit will not begin until after work tomorrow. I'll come home and do the flight-of-the-bumblebee thing, whizzing around the house picking up discarded Kleenex, dusting every visible surface I can think of (including the ceiling fans, which I've just noticed are -- EEEK! -- *not* looking good at all), and trying to ensure that my panties aren't hanging from any of the doorknobs in the house.
Not that Ned hasn't seen my panties before. It's just not ideal to have one's boyfriend see that one (occasionally) hangs one's panties on one's bathroom doorknob. And, no, I don't hang them there just for jollies sake. I sometimes hang them there because I have three snorting little she-devil puglets that like to ransack things when I'm showering. I have discovered (the hard way) that if one puts one's panties on the floor before stepping into the shower, one later steps out of the shower to discover at least one snorting little she-devil puglet with one's favorite ludicrously-overpriced-yet-perfectly-fabulous-pink-silk-and-black-lace-Victoria's-Secret panties hanging from little snorting she-devil puglet jowels. Sometimes in shreds. (Why, oh why, do dogs love to chew on panties? It's disgusting!) Consequently, one sometimes hangs one's panties from one's doorknob. Until the boyfriend comes to visit, anyway.
So, tomorrow night I will begin the remove-the-panties-from-the-doorknob milkrun, followed by the scrubbing of all things scary in the kitchen, the dust bunny extermination, and the rest of the typical pre-boyfriend-arrival preparation. Ned will drive overnight Wednesday night, and should arrive in the wee hours of the morning Thursday while I'm still sleeping. Ned will come into the house, put his things down, then come into the bedroom and give me a kiss to wake me up (my favorite part!). Ned never worries about sneaking quietly into the house because he knows that I'm such a hard sleeper that he could, quite frankly, bring the U.S. Navy Band into the bedroom and let them belt out "Anchors Aweigh", and I'd still keep snoozing away. (I love, love, love, love, love that it doesn't drive him crazy that I'm such a hard sleeper. He says it's "cute". How cute is that?!?)
Ned will be here from Thursday morning until next Monday morning. Woohoo! Woohoo! Woohoo! Oh, and, by the way, woohooo!
Note to self: Try to save self from need to either drop panties on floor or hang from doorknob. One is 34 now, so for-the-love-of-Manolo-and-all-sandals-strappy, get a laundry hamper! Plan B: Teach snorting little she-devil puglets that it's not polite to chew on one's panties. (Yeah, right. That'll happen.)
and all that legal-ish kind of stuff.