I've been asked why I was simply so frantic over the state of my house last week.

Normally, things like being socially conscious do not bother me. I am normally not ashamed or embarassed by my house, or my clothes, or my car. No, I save all my embarassment for my appearance.

Seriously, though, normally I just don't sweat that stuff. I mean, it's not like my family didn't see my house and the one previous under far worse conditions (and myself under far worse conditions as well). For crying out loud - I lived without kitchen cabinets for two years in the other house; I just thought to myself that it was like living in a Craftsman bungalow and chalked it up to experience.

But I wanted to make an impression. I wanted everything to come off just so - I wanted everything to be perfect - and even though my house is smaller than everyone else's (and god knows I don't really want a bigger house, just one with a better utilization of space). I wanted to be calm and cool when folks showed up, with food already outside and waiting and food on the table, and instead my hair was up in twist tails on top of my head, I'm in a tank top and jeans covered in mud, and I stink, literally stink, of sweat.

So I'm already starting off on the wrong foot: I know my house is a dump compared to everyone else's (I can't even get it as clean as everyone else's). I know that everyone else has nicer stuff (that I don't care about...I mean, it's just stuff. You can't take it with you, nor can you take the house with you). And I was nervous - I mean, this is a first time visit to my place, and with a lot of people, and it's not like I have the best house for entertaining children! Although Maddy was an angel.

What I wanted was for everyone to look at me and think I have my shit together, when I don't.

What a joke.

Oh, ignore the cranky old broad over here in blogland. Someone do something politically stupid or morally reprehensible to piss me off and give me something else to think about.