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I’m Not The Hostess With The Mostest

When visiting my aunt at her gorgeous home in Washington State (think the cover of Better Homes and Gardens) there is something that is very evident from the moment you pull into her driveway and see her waving at you from her perfectly decorated front porch…she is a hostess. Your bags will be happily brought in, your bed perfectly made, and before you are finished hugging her, she has a cocktail in your hand and is making sure that the dinner she planned will be to your liking. She just whipped up some ribs, 45 sides, and has her best china and linen napkins filling the dining room table. That’ll do, I suppose. The woman is a hostess. The kind of person you feel grateful to know year round, but especially during a long ass road trip. I’m just an asshole with a house and a blow up mattress covered in cat hair, but feel free to come stay anytime.

What my aunts house looks like. Mine, too. Minus the nice landscaping, clean windows and mowed lawn.

What my aunts house looks like. Mine, too. Minus the nice landscaping, clean windows and mowed lawn.

I missed that genetic coding. My younger sister is the one in our family who knows how to treat a guest and I let her treat me like a fucking queen, even if I just stop by her house to drop something off. Yes, I need a fresh towel. Yes, I need a fresh drink. Yes, you can carry me from one room to the other. When people come visit me there is a 99% chance I will be wearing pajamas and a 100% chance that I won’t make you a drink. I’ll happily show you my liquor cabinet and point out the lovely lake view from our deck, but then you are on your own. Because I’ll be resuming whatever I was doing before you drove 6,000 miles just to visit me. Most likely I was sitting on my deck drinking, so I guess that’s what we are all doing now. I’ll then point you in the vicinity of some possibly clean cups and a sink full of dirty dishes. If you came here to be pampered and entertained, you should probably keep your suitcases in the car and get yourself a room at The Best Western down the road. I hear they have snacks on every floor and an ice machine with that soft ice that I would kick a baby for.

I’m also not going to make coffee that is preferable to your palette because I do that for a job and I’m not at work and fuck that noisy noise. My aunt is such a stellar hostess/superhuman that she wakes up at 3 AM to make two different strengths of coffee. By the time we drag our lazy asses out of bed, she has already watered her immaculate gardens, done dishes, made coffee, ran a marathon, started a charity, and whipped up some homemade waffles with all the fixins. Stay at my house and you can bet your sweet ass that I won’t be out of bed until 9 AM, the coffee will be as thick as motor oil, and I will give you directions to a local greasy spoon where they will make you some waffles and will probably also give you diarrhea. If you aren’t a fan of my coffee, there is a truck stop 15 minutes up the road serving heated urine and powdered milk. Feel free to check them out.

Welcome to my home!!! No...I'm not getting off the couch.

Welcome to my home!!! No…I’m not getting off the couch.

I’m also confused about clean guest towels. I don’t even have the opportunity to use a clean towel at my house (even though I’m the one who washes 5,698 of them every week), so the idea that I would have a stack of fluffy white towels with your name embroidered on them is somewhat laughable. Although, when I stay at someone else’s home and they offer sweet smelling linens for my own person use, I’m like crack head who just discovered a free bag of black tar heroin stashed in a cabinet. I will use the shit out of those towels and then I’ll probably pack them in my suitcase. On accident. Also, if you are in need of a washcloth during your stay here at Casa Del Fuck That, please feel free to do what the rest of human kind does and use soap and water. Matching washcloths? You must think we are rich. Or care about clean ears.

This is a picture of noppity nope.

This is a picture of noppity nope.

My hostessing will never live up to your expectations because I don’t really understand how to be grown up and I’m not running a bed and breakfast up in this bitch. I’m just over here trying to take care of two hooligans, one shedding cat, and a dog who likes to leave Tootsie Roll turds under the pool table. Which you will probably step on when you are forced to bring in your own luggage. I’ll be the one pointing out the lovely lake view while I sip on my cocktail and order a few pizzas online. Keep your expectations low…like Motel 6 low. Okay…lower than that.