Wednesday, March 14, 2007

We have house guests for Spring Break.
Gwynyth's cousins from west Texas are here with Shana's mom.
Of course, this means the level of "little girlness" has been multiplied by three for the time being.
Normally, I'm more than masculine enough to compensate for our "little girlness" quantity, or at least balance it out here or there by leaving an ethernet cable stretched across the floor "temporarily" and filling the whole bottom shelf of the refrigerator with cola in those horrible, horrible can dispensing boxes. One time, I left a hammer on the kitchen counter.
Shana put it away and now I don't know where it is, though.
Three little girls churn out too much "little girlness" for anyone not employed full-time in the ninja or pirate industries to make up for.
Friends, last night I found myself in the family room slowly curling into a ball while trying not to care about Felicity's contribution to the Revolutionary War in a Hallmark American Girl movie.
In the end, I did care. And to compensate I'm pretty sure I won't be able to match my shirts to my socks or even wear deodorant for the rest of the week or risk losing my "Man Card".
I'm switching immediately to a diet of only Buffalo Wings and things made from or made to look like Buffalo Wings. And Coke Zero -- Let's not get crazy. It isn't like I get a 10% discount at Denny's with the Man Card.
Further, I've been practicing spitting. If I lean over the trash can in my cubicle like a partying Frat guy, I can get spit (or simulated spit from the water fountain in my case) into the can about 75% of the time. Of course, that includes the times it dribbles down my chin. I haven't broken that data point out in the spreadsheet where I'm tracking all this.
I'm afraid the fact that I'm tracking it in a spreadsheet may actually count against me, so I plan to cover that by spitting more.
Then I can use a simple batch file to import my spit results automatically.
Wait. That would be bad, too. As a man, I should manually import my own spit results. Because men work with their hands, and I've got the callouses to prove it on my typing fingers.
Well, I would if I didn't frequently take breaks to moisturize.

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