Yesterday we invited friends over for brunch, which is kind of like, the highest honor we can bestow upon someone (Because you totally care if you get some of my egg casserole and one or two of The Mr’s impossibly strong and spicy Bloody Marys right? No? Not about you.)
Anyway – this isn’t about our reverence for brunch, or even my obsession with being the hostess (which is a neurosis for another post,) really.
It was inadvertently kind of a big deal, though. Because as it turns out, we have had exactly NO ONE over since we moved in.
Well – no one other than my family, The Mr’s mom, and one dear family friend who came into town from The ATL and was our first overnight guest – but that is family and doesn’t count because they know all your shit anyway, and you know theirs, so any judgements cast would be kind of a chicken fight, ya know?
This particular awesome couple is 7 months along in their first pregnancy (“their” HA!! HER, in HER first pregnancy….. and he is there being supportive too, but seriously, whose bladder is that foot really jabbing?) I was anxious to see them and share the joy and offer up any baby gear they might want to pick from the pile in the basement storage unit too (because kids are EXPENSIVE, and even though a baby swing may very well save your sanity in the beginning of things, that moment is fleeting, and then you are left with a lot of expensive, barely used stuff.)
It just made sense to have them out to the house, even though “house proud” isn’t exactly our family motto quite yet. Actually, they will be one of the few to experience the kitchen pre-reno, since after they departed, I drilled out the holes for the new hardware that will go on after the cabinet refinishers do their thang at the end of this week, followed quickly the next week by the granite guys with our counters. Things are coming along, but we are FAR from being finished with the de-generic-ifying of the abode.
Either way, in they blew, up the highway from the city and into our outbound work-in-progress.
No really. They blew in. Because it is so freaking windy out here, like, All. The. Time. that I have to bite my tongue to keep from belting out the chorus of Oklahoma! every time I walk out of the house. SERIOUSLY – I do NOT remember it being so G.D. windy here when I was growing up. No wonder I used so much cheap hair spray when I was a teenager – it must have been a war keeping those 90’s bangs at full staff.
The Traitor Mr. extolled the virtues of life within spit-ball distance of the foot hills, and the slower paced, wide-open-spaces existence he has become the poster-husband for; while I eyeballed how little OJ I could get away with putting in my mimosa and still be able to call it “a mimosa.”
This particular growing brood isn’t actually long for the urban jungle themselves, setting their sights on the ‘burbs on the south side of the city in the not-oh-so-distant future, so at least we could skip the long-winded explanations about that decision. (Since when did I EVER skip being long-winded about anything, though. Really.)
It was good to see them. It was good to have them, have anyone, in our space again, actually. To remember that the road goes both ways and most people don’t actually think like I did when we were in the heart of it all (I was seriously put out if I had to drive to even one of the outer ‘hoods. What up, lazy? Clearly, I’m working on it.)
So I guess the new house is officially open for business when it comes to entertaining.
Blow on in anytime, friends – the construction is ongoing, but the Bloodys are strong, the Mimosas are kissed with only a hint of pesky OJ, and if you hoist a bed sheet you can probably sail your car right off the highway and into the subdivision and save the gas.
Reluctantly Suburban 