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Tuesday, August 24, 2004

Here's something you've heard before: If I'd known it would be that easy, I would have done it a long time ago. I get myself worked up over the smallest things, and then I'm embarrassed when I learn how little there was to worry about. (Not to embarrassed to write about it here, though.)

I really didn't know what to expect when I went in for my live scan fingerprinting this afternoon. Just in case, I didn't eat or drink anything except a cup of weak ginseng tea. I washed my hands about six extra times, and I didn't take any allergy pills. Who knows what might show up on something they call a "live scan." (I stayed off the hard drugs, too, by the way.)

Oh, and I put on clean underwear. (Not that I don't do that fairly often anyway.)

As it is, I waited so long to get around to doing this that someone else took the initiative and made the appointment for me. I can almost always put off making a phone call long enough that it becomes unnecessary. If there's a gold medal for getting out of doing what I don't want to do, I'm a heavy favorite.

The appointment was at 2:00 pm today, in a place about fifteen minutes from here. I left half an hour early, in case I didn't make all the lights on College Avenue. By the time I got close, I was deliberately missing the green lights so I wouldn't be ridiculously early. This place was way too easy to find, even tucked into the bend of a poorly marked dead end street.

But it was all good (as the kids say). The young woman was pleasant and efficient and, if you want to know the truth, quite gentle with me, as I should have expected. Nobody is in business to alienate the customer, although plenty of people do exactly that, for one reason or another. She took my fingers, one at a time, and rolled them over the scanning screen. And that was it. Thanks all around, and goodbye.

The next time I need to get fingerprinted, I'll be all gung ho about it. The thing is, now that I've been scanned, I'll probably never have to do it again. I'm pretty sure your fingerprints don't change the way, say, hair color does. (My driver's license is lying when it says "brown.")

24 August 2004

My freshly mowed yard.

Just to complicate things a little, my yard guy was here today. He left for lunch at about the same time I left for the fingerprinter's, so I didn't have to ask him to move his truck. I always feel guilty doing what I laughingly call "work" while he's out sweating in the sun in my yard. That's why I overpay him, I guess.

I couldn't have done his job, and I know it. I had all the windows and doors shut up tight, but I was still sneezing my head off. I could see the dry grass blowing around out there. Maybe it was the power of suggestion that made my eyes and nose water.

When he left, he suggested that this might be the last time this year he'd need to do a full mowing. I agreed, but I didn't say what I was thinking. This might be the last time I'll ever need him, if I follow through on my plan to get myself a lawnmower before next spring. I'd end up saving money, if I can stand to plow through the weeds two or three times a year. I'm not sure about that trade-off.

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