Where the Hell are my Parents

After a relaxing day with the critters, I set my alarm for 0515 so I could get to Dulles in time to pick up My Pregnant Wife. Now. A little over three years ago, she flew to England to visit me so I could propose and live happy, though she thought it was just a second date. I also told her how to get to my grandmother's town via bus after landing at Heathrow early in the morning, though no gentleman/future fiance would leave a gorgeous American to fend for herself. I woke up at 0400 to take a bus down to the airport and surprise her. I had a good four- or five-day goatee going, wore a knit cap low over my head, sunglasses, and a cigarette dangling from the right side of my mouth, waiting for her to arrive. She burst from the customs doors pushing a luggage cart, and I limped an exaggerated, broken-knee limp her way and tugged on her shirt. She turned away, good girl. I pursued her and she finally recognized me, no doubt by my nose, which is considerable.

Jump to 2005. No time to grow a beard, and too bloody hot to wear a wig, I grabbed some yellow-tinted sunglasses from our costume trunk, slunk a baseball camp on backwards, and hoped a newspaper could block my face sufficiently to surprise, but not outright shock lest I induce labor, My Pregnant Wife.

I was hiding behind an information desk while people started mulling around her flight's baggage belt, but I couldn't locate her. I took a chance and, newspaper up, walked and scanned, and spotted her. Unfortunately, she then moved away from the other people to be by herself along the back of the carousel, force protection rule #1. If you're in the Middle East. She seems a tad paranoid. Up came the newspaper, as I walked with a squat gait, trying to make myself appear shorter and unhusband like.

Here's what she told me she was thinking as I approached:

"That guy sure is holding his newspaper funny."

"My husband has that shirt."

"Those are my husband's sandals!"

Aloud: "What the hell are you doing here?"

So the lesson learned is that the art of surprise requires unfamiliar wardrobe, a smaller nose, and an indirect line of approach.

It was to have been six weeks before we'd have seen each other, so this was a welcome three-week injunction. We worked on the nursery a bit, installing another clothes rack for teeny hangers and touching up some of the paint job, but really just enjoyed a relaxing weekend in a house where I no longer know where anything is, but is still the best thing to come home to.

I also put my acoustic guitar up the boy's temporary quarters and played a few tunes, so he should be good to go in the quick-learning department, if not the Queensryche-appreciation department, which is in the same vicinity.