Friday Haiku: Paranoia

A guy came to my house to measure my floor this morning. The flooring place had told me he’d arrive between 9:00 and 11:00 a.m., and when he knocked on the door at 9:45, I did exactly what Oprah and Dr. Phil say you’re never supposed to do. I opened the door and let him in. Without asking for ID, and without first calling the flooring place to confirm that he was their employee. As soon as he was in the door, I remembered all the precautions that women are supposed to take before they let a strange man into the house, and I remembered every daytime talk show horror story I’ve seen dramatically re-enacted. But by then, it was too late.

As he kicked the snow off his boots, he commented on the cold outside. It was about eight below zero out there, with something like a -20 wind chill (gotta love winter in Minnesota). Trying to make lighthearted conversation, I replied, “Yeah, it was freezing in here a little while ago. I have the thermostat programmed lower during the day when I’m at work, and I forgot to override it this morning.” He chuckled politely, and I realized I’d just told him that my house is usually empty at this time of day.

I showed him to the sunroom. He took out his measuring tape and a note pad, and as he went to work, I wondered if the flooring company does criminal background checks on these guys before sending them out to people’s houses. He didn’t really look like a serial killer. But they never do.

Ten minutes later, he had the measurements he needed. He said that if I want sheet vinyl in that room, it’ll probably have to wait until spring, because the adhesive doesn’t work unless the temperature of the floor is above 70 degrees.

Then he packed up his tape measure and his notepad, and he left…

...without making me
into a lampshade, which was
nice of him, I think.

And I Also Need A Nap

An all-you-can-eat Friday haiku:

Indian lunch with
My Ho is the best, but now
I smell like curry.

Nope. Can’t Do It.

It seems that there is a limit to the things I will do for my children.

While I understand that their father has encouraged their participation for the past five years, and while I empathize with their disappointment that this year, for some reason, he won’t take them… I’m afraid I’m going to have to play the mean mom card on this one.

I will pick pestilence out of their hair with my bare hands. I will put back the items of clothing I chose for myself in favor of buying Demigoddess the Elder a suit to wear to her debate tournaments. I will, as requested, put honey in Demigoddess the Younger’s tea in the morning so that her voice will be in top form for her school musical audition eight hours later.

But I will not. WILL NOT take them to compete in a White Castle eating contest.

So don't even look at me like that.

Today’s Friday haiku is dedicated to Demigoddess the Elder:

I don’t know why you
Want to compete again when
last year, you threw up.

Well, That Sucked

I'm referring, of course, to the agonizing three-day meeting, and not to my birthday, which was lovely.

I warned My Ho ahead of time that Wednesday was going to be “Self-Absorbed Girlfriend Day.” He was nothing but charming as he followed me on a lengthy and thorough tour of Marshall Field’s handbag department. He was very helpful in The Gap and Banana Republic and Eddie Bauer and New York & Co. He sniffed and smelled and nodded most patiently throughout Bath & Body Works.

Various friends and family members provided a divine showering with gifts—gift cards, a book on writing, some tea, the new Liz Phair CD, and, from My Ho, a ridiculously luxurious feather bed, just like the one from our hotel room in Seattle.

And as if that weren’t enough joy for a Goddess on her birthday, at dinner with my family, I ordered an alcoholic beverage and was carded. Carded! And the waitress was all shocked and flustered when she saw the actual age on my ID. (True, the weight on my driver’s license is a total fabrication, but the birthdate is REAL.)

I have never been much of a greeting card person. I never saw the point in spending $4.00 on every birthday and every holiday, to have Hallmark express in mass-produced card form the sentiments that I'm too much of a chicken to say myself (or worse, to say things I don't really even MEAN) to everyone I've ever known in my life, simply because it's expected. If you have something to SAY, I preached, save a tree and write the person a note in your own words! That is so much more meaningful!

Wednesday proved me right about that. No fewer than four of the people I love most in the world gifted me with personal birthday missives—one long, one short, one electronic, and one written in orange marker. Never mind all the stuff, those letters were the best gift of all.

But of course, it couldn't go on forever. Wednesday’s wealth of loveliness made the final agonizing day of the agonizing three-day meeting seem even more, well, agonizing.

And so, on to today’s Friday Haiku:

Brain damage? Or just
a PowerPoint hangover?
It’s too soon to tell.

My Ho Grew Up In Skokie, Illinois…

…yet, inexplicably, he totally did not get the joke when I asked if he had been in a barbershop quartet there.

And so, I give you today’s Friday haiku:

Dude really needs to
see “The Usual Suspects.”
Immediately.

Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall…

Who is the Phairest of them all?

Why, that would be the original Average Everyday Sane Psycho Supergoddess, of course, the human supernova, the pit bull in a basement, the one and only exile from Guyville, Liz Phair, whom I saw at Minneapolis’s famed First Avenue last night. (And no, there was no funk shrieking.)

I am humbled by her coolness. I covet her lyrical gifts. She makes me wish I had blown off college and become a rock star. And I would give my left eyeball to look that good in a miniskirt.

Which brings me to this week’s Friday haiku:

If I were taller
I could have seen what shoes she
was wearing onstage.

Another Haiku for Friday

With a little planning, and a little luck, a person can squeeze an amazing number of errands into a single lunch hour.

From work to home, to the bank, to the mall, and finally, on the way back to work, the drive-thru, where I picked up the inspiraton for today's Friday Haiku:

Wendy’s Frostys are
so good, but so very hard
to eat while driving.