Impending

Well, I'm leaving for a birthday party in 10 minutes.

I'm exhausted.

Even though the reading went really well, it took the stuffing out of me. Enough stuffing that I walked the Born Ruffian home and didn't have the energy to take my pants off. You know it's a dire situation when that's the case.

But I'm going, because it's Mae's birthday, Hawkeye's too, and I like that Mae and that Hawkeye one heckuva lot.

And what would I do if I didn't go?

Clean like an anal retentive maniac for my father's visit: I've already ironed my curtains and I've got the dust attachment ready for the vacuum tomorrow to do between the spindles of the railing. The couch has been steam cleaned.

He probably won't care, probably won't notice, but I want him to. To see how neat it is, how I am my father's daughter, I want him to see the flat surfaces with no crap on them, I want him to love me for it.