I’m going down to Poughkeepsie today to bring my parents back for a visit.

Thanks to the movie “The French Connection” I used to be very reluctant to tell people I was from Poughkeepsie. In college, I discovered quickly that if I told anyone where I was from, the immediate response was “Oh! And what do you *do* in Poughkeepsie. Do you … ?” Even now I can’t quite bring myself to type the infamous line.

Anyway, whenever the subject of where I was from came up, I would reply vaguely “upstate New York” or “the Hudson Valley”. For a while I told people I was from “near Wappingers Falls” because that happened to be where I went to high school. Then Tawana Brawley made headlines (she even went to my old high school) and I stopped using that as a reference point.

Finally, Dave noticed my subterfuge and asked me about it. I realized then that it was just a little crazy to let such a small thing bother me. Now I tell people right out “Poughkeepsie” and have been surprised that not one person has mentioned The French Connection.

Dave came home at around midnight yesterday. He briefly flirted with taking Delta up on a $400 offer to spend the night in Cinncinnati, but good sense prevailed.

Contrary to some reports, I did not spend the weekend partying. I cleaned, de-cluttered and prepared for a visit from my parents later this week. Not that they would ever find fault with my housekeeping (which leaves so very much to be desired), but because I just couldn’t stand it any more.

I don’t know how people who actually have to leave their homes to work every day manage. If it weren’t that I can throw a load of laundry in between answering phone calls and other office-related activities, I don’t know what I would do. Even with the intensive bout of housework this weekend, parts of the house are still a disaster.

All my life I’ve been thinking that eventually I will get a grip on the housework situation and suddenly we’ll be living in a picture-perfect (circa 1950s) household. I don’t know why that would be the ideal, but I guess it’s like that imprinting thing that happens with baby ducks. I must have absorbed it during those summers spent watching “Father Knows Best” and “Leave It to Beaver” re-runs (while my mom vacuumed around me, I’m sure).

Why do I think it’s just a matter of my organizing myself well enough? Clearly the homes in those sitcoms benefited from the full-time ministrations of a stay-at-home mom. Maybe it is time to throw in the Swiffer duster and hire a cleaning service.

Just kidding. The headline is for Dave who is, sadly, in Dallas for a couple of days, poor guy.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I’m goofing off. I’ve closed the company so I can properly devote my time to reading fashion magazines and eating jelly beans all day. (In reality, I went to choir practice last night, and will be singing at a funeral service tomorrow, as well as at the usual church service on Sunday.)

Tonight I’m going to practice violin and watch a movie. I thought about going out to the movies, but I like being home alone — at least until dark. Then I start to wonder if it’s just a fluke that I’ve never seen a ghost. Worse than a ghost, the little brown bat that got into the house last weekend could put in another appearance.

As a rule, I like bats. I just don’t want to share my home with them. I’m sure they feel the same way about me. It’s obvious when a bat gets in that all it wants to do is get back out to the abundant mosquitos and other winged snackfood.