Warning stickers on your expectations

Well, 7:55am came and went, and no word from the attorney from yesterday afternoon on either side of the question.

She was impossibly thin... it seems like I've met more than a few such women lately, just barely above the borderline where I might consider them in the throes of some sort of eating disorder. Then again, she was barely over five feet tall, so a hundred pounds is probably not that unusual. Just sort of unusual for women I'm around. Really tiny women, I worry I'm going to break them or something.

I am going to begin a housecleaning fit when I get home in a while. This time, unlike previous efforts, I've mapped out what really needs to hoppity-hop and what can sit'n'spin, so the odds of me being distracted or sidetracked by the four hundred non-vital issues my house presents are reduced.

My 40Gb iPod is on its way back to California. I had to chase all over the place at lunch to locate a DHL dropoff box, and even then, I am sort of SOL if DHL destroys it or loses it, since the dropbox provides no proof DHL actually picked it up. They make a lot of money at NOT losing shit, though, so I am trusting them on this one. For the time being, I am listening to CD-MP3s in the car and podcasts on the little iPod (a mere 20Gb).

I sent Martha a note this afternoon asking her if she might consider trying to sound at least a little excited about seeing me. She says she is, but then again, she has those sentiments couched in so many layers of conditions and caveats that it's like opening some weird emotional household appliance every time I talk to her:

• WARNING! DO NOT USE DURING THUNDERSTORMS!
  
• WARNING! MAY BE UNSTABLE OVER 100,000RPM!
  
• WARNING! DO NOT APPLY TO RECTAL AREA!
  
• MISE EN GARDE! NE MANGEZ PAS!
  

I kind of like women to be as excited about me as I am about them. Or at least, in the same pulse range. Martha is off on some other logarithmic scale.

I have to go home and clean now.