may 3, 2001. Last night I got so caught up in web design that I plumb ran out of time to write. Q has demanded that I provide a new who's who in America listing to remain geographically accurate, and I got kind of consumed in the whole thing. I predict more of the same tonight; this morning we had a website design session and I'm currently burning to overhaul the index page. After all the intense desing scrutiny, I'm embarrassed to keep the page the way it is. So...out it goes. And it follows therefore that this entry may not see the light of day for awhile. Which is, of course, a huge loss to world culture. One of the things I did last night was to prepare for my family's arrival on Saturday by tidying up a whole bunch of stuff in various rooms. It takes a lot of time, you know. I have my nights booked from now till their arrival, chock full of fun stuff like "taking the trash out," "cleaning the fridge (throwing out the scary salsa we've had since September)" and the ever popular "clean the toilet" item. Fun fun fun. I can't remember if I mentioned this already, but the Boy & I have been putting serious thought into things we want out of the house during the visit. One of the items "on loan" from the rockethome collection is my final art project. I could explain why I handed in a project featuring a photo of me in a bra and text describing a night at a fetish club...but I don't really want to go there. Selective truth telling. I'm not going to lie to my parents - if they ask me flat out if I put a shirtless photo of my on public display and/or used to go to fetish masquerades, I'll most likely squirm & tell the truth. But they probably won't ask. Meanwhile it amuses me that on the eve of my family's arrival, the most dangerous thing in my home is a piece of art. Maybe Brecht was on to something. "Art is not a mirror. Art is a hammer." - bb We also finally fixed our futon. Well, in all truth, the apartment staff fixed our futon; we just watched and tried (unsuccessfully) not to look helpless. We were on our way to the hardware store to find a small square of wood to brace the broken slat - which seemed like the best idea. I mean, we're not exactly high on manly fixit skill in the rockethome so we were playing it by ear. But then we were saved by the superior handyman knowledge of our downstairs neighbor, who also happens to be part of the building staff. There are very few things that make me feel like a child. Seeing somebody fix one of my broken objects tops that list. Another busy busy day! The work training continues smoothly. Today I learned how to plan complex tasks using timelines. I was initially sceptical, but have been wholly convinced. So convinced, in fact, that I used the method to plan out THINGS WE NEED TO DO BEFORE MY PARENTS ARRIVE. This is, of course, a long & complex set of tasks. I can't believe how much we still have to do, from finding makeshift curtains to taking out the trash. We spent an hour and a half shopping for various little tiny things. It was the kind of shopping that takes way too much time, way too much money and way too much effort. By the time we got home, we only had the energy to inflate the air mattress and watch the Leafs claw out another victory. One of the items we were shopping for was a present for my dad. Jeez Louise, is he ever hard to shop for. And I have the psychological handicap of remembering every crappy gift I've ever given him. In no particular order, we have: Books: large pretty coffee table varieties with lots of pictures, thick reference guides to movies, comic collections - all of which he never reads. Records: old rock n' roll that he never listens to. Videos: old Cary Grant movies that he sometimes watches. Mugs, t-shirt and other "amusing" paraphernalia that embarrasses me every time I see them in the laundry pile or the kitchen cupboard. Practical items like socks and toiletry travelling bags and beige socks that are even more boring to give than they are to write about. Once upon a time I had a conversation with Preacher when he was shopping for his dad's birthday. "Over the years, the present he liked the best were the car mats I got him." He looked at me bleakly. "How do you get a present for a guy who got really excited about car mats?" I had no answer for him then, and even less idea what to say - or buy - now. We ended up buying a bunch of grooming supplies - nail clippers and the like. The dreaded tiger trap of practicality has captured me once more.