Well, tomorrow night, my older daughter goes to her first dance. Since the Machiavellian machinations of (near) middle-school mentality have produced a companion for her for the event, one doesn't have to stretch the definition too far to conclude that she is about to embark on her first date. Imagine, if you can, the trepidation with which I type that word. My hands are trembling hard enough that I'm surprised I didn't type 'dq63' instead.
Granted, the little mongrel will probably be unable to muster the courage to successfully complete a single coherent sentence addressed to her all evening, but that's beside the point. I was hoping for a couple more years before this sort of thing gets inflicted on us. No, scratch that. Mrs. hidesert seems to be dealing with this with a deeply disturbing sense of detached amusement, so I feel no guilt about saying 'inflicted on me.'
The real pi$$er is that we're picking him up and taking them there and back. It has it's advantages, of course (can you say supplementary seat belts? I spell it 'motorcycle tie-downs'), but the principle and overriding disadvantage is that I can't make the little barbarian come pick her up and call him inside to meet me while cleaning my .45. Guess I'll have to wait a few years for the little monsters to get drivers' licenses to enact that particular tableau.
On to other matters. When is that ^%$^%*#$%^@# bottle of Glenmorangie getting here!!??
