“How’s being a bachelorette?,” my dad asked. “You mean how’s having four husbands?,” I countered.
Three of my partner Michael’s best friends are visiting from Scotland, and staying with us for a couple weeks.
They’re top and tailing packed like sardines in the small room formerly known as my office. In preparation for their arrival, I rid the room of my flowery butterfly rug, and Michael added a mason jar filled with weed.
They’re all pretty big guys with a three-Slurpee-a-day tolerance. They really are very sweet men, with even better accents.
In honor of houseguests, I’ve become the permanent party mom/live-in maid. Whose to say that dreams really don’t come true?
While they cycled across the Golden Gate Bridge, I was vacuuming up cat hair lodged in that gap where carpet meets wall, and wiping down a quarter-inch-thick grease layer from the stovetop ventilation.
When they were hiking Yosemite, I snuck into their room to put their dirty towels through the wash, and made a double batch of chocolate chip cookies for their return.
And when they went out for a night downtown, I drove them in and slept on a side street in my car until their drunk asses needed picked up. And there may have been a 7-Eleven run for pizzas and three a day, doctor’s orders—Slurpees—on the way home.
When they hit up L.A. and spent the day at Six Flags, I emptied the litter box and took out the trash for the umpteenth time that week.
For a person who generally prides herself on being fun (in college I furnished the dorm’s living room with a full-sized trampoline), this week has been one for the record books.
Part of me wants to run about the house brandishing a blazing bra overhead blaring J.Lo’s “Ain’t Your Mama” with occasional Helen Reddy interludes, herding the men to pick up their shoes (and socks and underwear…), and dispose of their fingernail clippings in the trash instead of on the kitchen table, and prove to me that they are physically capable of changing toilet paper rolls (forget the tree in the forest—if a woman isn’t around, does a toilet paper roll even get changed?).
And the other part thinks that I need a vacation. Not like an all-inclusive lounge on the beach piña colada in hand Maui getaway. That sounds expensive, hard to coordinate, and like a lot of packing—albeit amazing. Just like an extra long bubble bath, second glass of wine, Sex and the City reruns type of vacation. One with dollar store face masks and dark chocolate. One involving library books and a lawn chair in the sunshine. Maybe there’ll be some cucumber water. Maybe I’ll put an umbrella in it.
I just need to allow myself to have fun. And none of that trick yourself into thinking that sorting out your wardrobe on a Saturday afternoon is fun. Saturday afternoons are for beaches, whether you’re flying solo, or there’s a rugby team of men eating from your fridge and shitting in your toilet. Invite the lawn chair if you’d like, invite the rugby team if you fancy, as for Saturday afternoons baby, your attendance is mandatory.
There was no one asking me to stand over the sink and scrub or wipe drink rings off the coffee table, that was all me. Sure enough, they were off having man time, but that didn’t mean I needed to be home having “woman time” in the form of a proverbial tuna casserole.
They’re the first friends of Michaels who have come to visit since he moved out here over two years ago, and saying he was over the moon excited about them staying would be an understatement. I just felt like I needed to make them welcomed, and quickly slipped into hospitality overdrive (ain’t my first time at that rodeo).
After a two week diet of strict domesticity I reached a point where one more store run to buy crates of beer, bacon and toilet paper would have genuinely done me in.
So I took a few deep breaths, played a wild card, and gave myself permission to have fun instead.
Not quite Maui, but I headed to a thrift store. I love thrift stores, because I can afford fucking everything. And I walked out wondering how I spent $37 at the Goodwill. But damn was it fun.
And this morning I didn’t clean up the beer bottles lining the poker table, or the escaped Fritos decorating the floor. I left them for our guests, or for Michael, their keeper. Because I’d only drank one beer the night before, and had put it in the recycling after it was done.
I did however bite my tongue when I saw that someone had not only taken a forkful of my Cheesecake Factory Reese’s Peanut Butter Chocolate Cake Cheesecake slice (everyone had a piece, I was just slower at finishing mine), but had also left the chocolate covered fork in the sink. If you’re gonna steal my food, at least do the dishes afterwards.
In lieu of non-hostessy confrontation, I opted for a passive aggressive blog post. Because hostesses walk a fine line between tongue biting and allowing guests who don’t offer to do the dishes, to do them anyway.
But hey, they’re going tomorrow, and they timed it well as we’re officially out of beer.
And Michael’s on solid cleaning duty for the next week. If he needs me, I’ll be in a lawn chair.