Good thing they can't fire me.

Two of Rachel’s friends from St. Mary’s stopped by here with her briefly yesterday, after a day in Annapolis. I don’t know why this kind of situation can make me feel so ill at ease--it’s related somehow to my domestic misfit syndrome.
One of the nice young ladies said “you have a lovely home.” Luckily, I knew the correct response and replied “thanks,” even though I was thinking something like this: Why would you say that to me? Do I look like the kind of person who would have a lovely home? Do I in any way resemble Martha Stewart? Is it not obvious that my rightful habitat would be a barn?

It’s probably good that I didn’t say those things. It might have confused them. They, after all, were following the script, and I was off on a wild tangential head trip. And I think I displayed ample awkwardness as the 3 of them (2 friends + Rachel) sat at the kitchen counter munching tortilla chips and hummus while I sauteed chard, Olivia made mac and cheese, Jeff pulled a Flatbread pizza out of the freezer, while I apologized for the fact that “we don’t really fix dinner here--we just kind of randomly eat stuff.

Gadzooks. Any reasonable mom of teens would be able to offer something on the spot. I think it didn’t matter. I think they’d eaten and snacked in town and weren’t really hankering for a mom-figure to lay out a repast.

And then they got ready to leave. The other nice young lady made a point of sticking her head in the kitchen to say “Thanks for having us.” I was thinking: Having you? I didn’t even do anything. I didn’t even get you a drink. (Luckily Rachel did!) You must have a real professional mother at your house who taught you what to say...which means--yikes! You know a bogus imposter when you see one! But I didn’t say that. I think I said something like “sure.”