Dear friends, and loved ones who may have found your way here after my parents’ Christmas letter, when someone says “Where will Mom and Dad stay the second half of the week?” and you say, “I don’t know. I suppose they’ll stay with us.” do you not see how, to a girl who hasn’t done so much as sweep the floor this weekend, you’ve left a sliver of possibility open?
Maybe they won’t stay with us. Maybe the state of the shower doesn’t matter. Maybe the fact that we have a trash stalagmite in the bathroom will just magically resolve itself. La, la, la. Suppose our parents stayed with us next week. Suppose money grew on trees. Suppose seven strong naked men all vaguely resembling Edgar Ramirez were waiting for me in my bed right now, biding their time while I’m blogging reading erotic Spanish poetry, tending my houseplants, and wishing the actual Edgar Ramirez had more screen time in Domino.
Suppose is nothing. An intellectual exercise for the very drunk or very stoned.
No, if our parents really are going to stay with us for any part of the Christmas holiday, I cannot “suppose” that. I must know that.
Which, admittedly, I do now, because Dad told me.
I hope we can find towels for them to use. Also, if any of you need to burn off nervous holiday energy by cleaning and your homes are already spotless, I know of a place in need of a good cleaning where one of the inhabitants is blissfully unconcerned and the other is probably curled up on the couch in terror.