It' Showtime, Folks!

My toes and fingers freshly painted, I sit at the dryers watching NCAA basketball and texting with Craig. And ordering Chinese food for me and the kids. I want to cook like I want to pull out my own teeth.  A little MSG never killed anyone. Or did it?  Oh well, too late. The Shrimp Lo Mein and the Chicken and Broc have been ordered, with some Spring Rolls and some Wonton Soup as well. If I can manage to cork the chardonnay without smearing a nail, the evening is poised for success.

Craig asks if I would still come his way.  I have no objection and I like the idea that we'll no longer be such a big secret.  I am not sure why that means so much. Maybe because Scott had stopped acknowledging my presence on Facebook so long ago. I am overly sensitive to the idea that someone will not want to parade around with me on their arm for all the world to see.

I am overpacked but I think I can just leave the garment bag on the back of the door and have everything I need for whatever we decide to do.  No need to wreck a perfectly good manicure overanalyzing the outfit selection. "Whatever we decide to do" is something I am very excited to learn about but could be dictated by what I am dressed for.  I am sure I won't be standing there going, "Damn, that sounds like fun but I didn't bring a ball gown!"

The next morning I am awake early, coffeed up and ready to roll. I head out to the track to do a few miles. It always puts me in a great mood to get a brisk walk in. I do my best thinking. Sort it all out. Evaluate my options. Write this blog in my head, usually.

I get a text from Craig about 3 miles in. He wants to know if I want to get together. 

What? 

I write back, sort of in a panic. "I thought we were..." 

I wonder if he thinks I changed my mind. Found a better option. Or is his memory just that squirrely?  I hold my breath waiting for his reply.

Ding!

"Cool." and a little smiley.

I have no idea what might have just happened.

I reply immediately. I don't want the conversation to end without answers.  "All we need is a plan."

"I can come to you if you like. You already have a lot of driving ahead."

I do. And although I'd love to meet him on his home field, I love playing host to him.  He's fun to have around. Comfortable. I tell him I have at least one child with me until 2. He says that's cool. He'll see me then.

But OMG I need to clean my house!  I step up the pace, finish my last 2 laps and hot foot it back to the house.

Hil is leaving for the mall with some girlfriends. One less child to make a mess behind me but also the only child with halfway decent motivation to help me out the door in the same deal. I look at Pat playing XBox 360.  If he manages not to move, and brings down all the debris he's collected around himself, I'll be fine.

Lucky I am limbered up and messy. It makes for a dive-in and get dirty cleaning situation.  Irish lace be damned.

I tackle the visible things first. Create the illusion of neatness and order. Empty and reload the dishwasher. Put away pots and pans drying on the stove. Clean up around the cat bowls (little 4-legged slobs that they are).  Wipe down the counters with something that smells like germ-free squeaky cleanliness.  Sweep the floor. Wet mop it with something that smells hospital-quality sanitary on my way out, grabbing the dust rag and Pledge as I do.

I whiz through the wooden furniture on the first floor. Lemony freshness everywhere.  I light a lemon scented candle to perpetuate the illusion. I dry mop the hardwood floors and the stairs. Grab the vacuum and carpet freshener.  The rugs will be laundry fresh even if I know they are not. I am like a housework fairy flitting from room to room. 

While the freshener freshens and the kitchen floor dries, I head upstairs. Dust my bedroom. De-clutter the tops of the dressers. Place shoes back in boxes, hang clothes or stuff them into the hamper, remove bras from door handles. Change the sheets on my bed to crisp white ones and spray them with linen spray. Make the kids beds. Again, sprinkle the carpet freshener.

Time for bleach. Bleach wipes on the countertops in the bathroom.  Bleach in the tub.  Swab the deck with a bleach-soaked cloth.  De-mold the shower liner with bleach spray.  Replace all the towels intending to wash them in bleach. Scrub-a-dub-dub the toily with a brush and guess what?  Bleach!

Back downstairs to vacuum. Back upstairs to vacuum. Clothes that have been left to be put away in each child's room by their personalized Indentured Servant Fairies are collected and stashed in the usual places.

Better Homes and Gardens may as well have been on their way. My house is perfect.

I jump in the shower. I have about an hour until Pat goes to his Dad's. 

A few minutes later I emerge...shaved, scrubbed, exfoliated, shampooed and deep conditioned, youth-masked and scented to perfection. I wrap my hair in a fresh towel and as I lather on the glistening moisturizer, I get a text from Craig.

"I am at the Pub. Take your time. I know I am early."

Well, darn it, then I will be too!