Welcome In

Confessions of a terrible hostess.

Letting people into my house made me skittish even before the pandemic. Not that anyone would know, because I act friendly AF. “Come on in,” I say, adding (disingenuously) “sorry about the mess.” Except for the years I had half a dozen small-to-mid-size humans in my care, spawning chaos I couldn’t keep up with, my house looks like it is maintained by a person who is neurotic, if not psychotic, about tidiness, i.e., me.

Now, with fewer people wanting to gain entrance to mi casa and fewer opportunities to admit them, I’ve gotten even more inhospitable. I am fine with close friends and family; in fact, I’ve been known to roofy them to prevent them from leaving, but with acquaintances and strangers, I get jumpy.

Right off the bat I talk shit about the house. The wall of floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room are stunning, but a bird flew into one this morning and left a trail of blood-slime and feathers. Gross! Then, I point out the bizarre mixture of Colonial and mid-century architectural details in the ceiling molding and the bleach spot on the rug where the dog threw up.

I wonder if I will ever be genuinely excited to welcome randos in and just let them experience the house without the preface of deprecatory comments, but I doubt it. The notion of home being a haven where I can be myself seems to preclude casual admission. It’s my home, sure, but more than that, it’s MY home. I don’t really want them to like it.

So, stranger, come visit! Here’s what’s going to happen. “Come on in,” I will say. And I hope you do, but not really. “Sorry about the mess.” I am smiling as I beckon you into my anally tidy abode, wondering when you are going to leave, praying to god it’s soon.