The fine art of the hissy.

I'm getting dangerously close to throwing a little fit. I feel as if any minute now I may just fall to the floor and flail about wildly. Thank goodness I have on my boxer shorts. They make the falling and flailing so much easier. They also reduce the inevitable chaffing from such an activity.

I'm trying to calm myself through deep breathing and slamming shots of Nyquil. Truly I am. But for an obsessive-compulsive female prone to having epic tizzies over minor issues, like whether or not I really did touch the light switch seven times, the fact that my father will soon be knocking on my door makes calm a place I will likely not see any time soon.

Yep. Pop is coming to Kansas to see his little girl. Along with my step-mom Martha, he will arrive this Sunday evening. That leaves me only about 42 hours to completely change my entire life. I figure if I work constantly, consume only saltine crackers and diet Dr. Pepper over the kitchen sink and sleep no more than 1.7 minutes every ninth hour, I still have absolutely no chance in hell of creating for him the illusion that I am successful, mentally stable and a super fabulous wife and mother.

But, I'm still gonna give it my best shot. It's what I do.

If you knew Mr. Bailey like I know Mr. Bailey, you would be on the verge of having a crazy spell, too. He ran a tight ship in our little North Carolina home. Clean was never clean enough, we five children were to be seen and not heard and chaos was simply not an option. Our house was so clean you could have eaten off the bathroom counter, if you are the kind of person that likes a light snack while taking care of toilet issues....and I'll bet you are.

The man that makes Mr. Clean look like a gay cabaret act is going to spend time in my house. My so not perfect house, where he will look at and examine under a microscope my not so perfect life. And you know what? Mr. Clean really does look like a gay cabaret act, doesn't he? I'll bet if we could see more than his head, he'd be wearing leather chaps and chains.

Ok. Getting back to my hissy fit. For an entire week, I've been trying to change everything that I might even possibly be able to change before he arrives. Sadly I've discovered it's rather difficult to reinvent yourself in seven days. Who knew?

Pop doesn't care for bleach-blonde hair. He isn't fond of short skirts or shoes with heels on them. He doesn't understand the need for more than one earring in each ear, rings anywhere on your body other than your wedding finger or purple eye-shadow. In his eyes, I'm pretty sure I am the anti-daughter.

Maybe I should just give up and open the front door in Mr. Man's sweats and no make-up. Maybe I should stop trying to teach the dog German. Maybe I should quit alphabetizing the magnets on my refrigerator and stop sanitizing the trash cans. Ah, who am I kidding? I do so love alphabetizing and sanitizing.

"Now don't go doing anything special just because we're coming," said the man that once actually put on an honest to goodness white glove to verify I had indeed cleaned the tops of the doors. If cleanliness is next to godliness, my father and God are Siamese twins.

"Oh, I won't Pop," I lied. "I learned a lot from you growing up and as a result, my house is perpetually ready for out of town, white glove wearing guests."

Mr. Man is doing a little dance of glee because as luck would have it, he is not around much while I get ready for the big visit. "Gee, I sure hate I have to work while you're preparing for your Dad to arrive," he said. "I do so love getting yelled at for moving a pillow on the sofa or peeing in the house." (Before you think Mr. Man is a pig who pees in random areas of the house, I should clarify. He is trained to pee only in designated pee areas.)

I have baked, I have cleaned and I have exercised. I have shopped, I have planned and I have pulled from the back of my closet extremely unattractive and loose fitting clothing. I am as ready as I am ever going to be. I yam what I yam and it's high time I started feeling as if I'm good enough to be loved for just being me.

Completely unrelated question...Would anyone happen to know where I can get some last minute plastic surgery here in the Midwest? I'm not at all opposed to doctors who work out of the trunks of their station wagons.

PS: Wanna see some pics of my family?
Click here to see myself and my prettier sister, Connie.

Aunt Sherri and her two cute nephews.

My Pop, Step-Mom Martha, the Big Dog and Me several years ago.

My Kitten and I the night of her Senior Prom.



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