So I guess the current "have nothing better to do" meme is to Google your name and the phrase "likes to", and seeing what pops up - here goes:
Tracy likes to go out with the girls and dance the night away.
Tracy likes to tell the story of John F. Kennedy's political rise.
Tracy likes to terrorize people for fun, but she doesn't want to get the blame.
Tracy likes to justify her behavior by pointing out what others have done to her.
Tracy likes to sing shuffles and he finally had a chance to record one called "Sawdust On Her Halo,".
Tracy likes to go first.
Tracy likes to serve her casserole with Mexican corn bread and a green salad.
Tracy's likes to show it off rather than cover it up.
Tracy likes to talk, and is interested in successful and unsuccessful conversations in Chekhov's plays.
Tracy likes to deflate my exaggerations.
Tracy likes to think that it is better to give YOU the choice of how your evening will go.
Tracy likes to envision a musical mandala.
Tracy likes to hang out a bit a talk to chums and to eat the candy we deny her at home.
Tracy likes to learn how to do a lot of things, but never sticks with just one.
Tracy likes to steal identities.
Tracy likes to think of herself as a lily of the field (although in reality she's more like a stinging nettle).
Tracy likes to take these photos and make them available on the Web to anyone who, for whatever obscure reason, would want to have a look at them.
Tracy likes to keep her thinking sharp with Taekwon-do and Ashtanga
Tracy likes to stretch her neck to allow maximum pony action.
Indeed. That's me in a nutshell.
Quote from Bill, just now:
"My new rule: I do NOT go to movies that have midgets popping out of coffins. Ever."
Because it's been so long, and I'm in a mood to gross people out, I now present you with another brief installment of... Conversations With E! A classic from several months ago, wherein pop-culture references explode like great gouts of... well, let's wait on the analogy for now.
***
E: I see you.
me: Eek!
E: I'm squishing your tiny head!
me: I scoff at your meager attempts to pester me. I am invincible.
E: Blarg! Honk!
me: Alright, there, Homestar Runner.
E: You just wait till I start quoting Monty Python at you, Ms. Smartypants.
me: Go away, or I weell taunt you a second time!
E: I don't actually think you remember how to taunt a person properly, it's been such a long time.
me: Aw, just like riding a bike. I just give you a break because of your ongoing service to humanity, and all the bodily fluids that entails.
E: Some of them are not so fluid-like. Many are quite semisolid!
Chunky, even.
And fragrant.
Occasionally under pressure.
me: Thanks ever so much for oversharing.
E: Loculated. Purulent.
me: Don't go bandying about your fancy terms with me, Mr. Poopwrangler.
me: Mr. Pus-harvester!
E: Poop is for interns.
me: He's Mister Pus-Meister, he's Mr. Lance. He's Mr. Ass-Blister, he's Mr. Drop Yer Pants!
me: Things devolve so quickly when you're talking to me, don't they? It's my special talent.
E: [Embarks upon a long-winded clinical description of a "Carbuncle" with "freely flowing yellow-gray purulent material" and "internal loculations". Trust me, this is already more than you want to know.]
me: I'm going to start calling you Locutus of Gore.
E: If you're good, I'll type you the hemorrhoid I&D someday! Because I like you so much.
me: Oh. goody.
Why do I feel compelled to make sure the sheets on MY bed are changed before my parents come to visit? Am I really afraid that my mom's going to sneak into my room when I'm at work, lift the covers and take stock of the clean sheet situation?
Yes. Yes, I am. The term "house-proud" isn't just a phrase, it's a religious devotion with English matrons of her species. I've learned, however, that it's actually best not to have things 100% clean, especially when I have to go to work while they're visiting. It's not that I WANT my mom to do housework for me, necessarily... It's that I know she'll do it whether I want her to or not, so it's best to plan accordingly. By "forgetting" to dust the bookshelves, or leaving a few shirts around which need ironing, I provide outlets for her fussing, making her less likely to resort to more exotic household aid efforts which would take her into areas I'd prefer remain unmolested by anyone but me. Honestly, it's not about getting free housework - it's about making Mom happy! And also getting free housework. But mostly the happiness.
However, there's an additional level of difficulty in this game these days called Mobility, since her hip is taking a while to recover from its replacement and she also apparently has a broken bone in her foot... Not that any of this really keeps her from overextending herself in the pursuit of Tidy. I have to make sure, then, that she doesn't find things to do that will pose a risk to her osteopathic well-being. I don't want the other kids getting on my case because I broke their mom. This is why last night I debated for a good two minutes on whether or not to wipe down the dishwasher door. On one hand - perfect Mom task. On the other - requires low-level contortion. Tricky. (In the end, Wee wiped it down. Good lad!)
Ultimately, I just have to accept that my house isn't going to be in OCD-perfect order when my folks get here, and remind myself that they actually do understand that we both work full-time, and unlike many of our yuppie compatriots we don't hire Merry Maids, and we're both sort of packrats, and we're also kind of indifferent to low-level clutter. So really, any clear clean surface they do find in the house is a testament to my respect for their comfort, because at any other given time that surface is likely to be covered in old magazines or dust or wineglass rings. And for a couple of glorious days, when I get home, that place is guaranteed to be cleaner than when I left it, and dinner's likely to be started, and best of all I get to hang out with my tiny folks who are pretty much the easiest houseguests ever. So it's all good.