Tonight we are having Mr. H. over for dinner. And by that I do not mean that we are having our dead cat, Mr. Horkheimer, for dinner. Although technically we are, as his ashes are still on our dining room hutch.
Mr. H. is one of Marvin Gardens' co-workers, another teacher at the school. I did not want to type in his real name, lest children Google him and find this blog, and then one day Marvin Gardens will go to work and all the kids will be calling him Marvin Gardens. Which does not command respect, really.
"Hi, Marvin Gardens!" which will inevitably lead to "Hi, B&O Railroad!" "Good morning, Community Chest!" You can see it will go nowhere good. Why do you people have kids, again?
When we moved here from Los Angeles two months ago, we donated our kitchen table to charity, as it was decidedly wobbly. Which I know does not seem kind. "Here are our dregs! Move forward, unfortunate person! Prosper!" But the charity assured us that the table was still good.
So we lived here for the first six weeks with no eating table whatsoever, relegating all meals to the living room, where we ate during Reba. This led to crumbs on the couch and eventually ants.
A few weeks back, we found the coolest 1950s Formica table, which we bought, as some sort of table seemed a necessity. But what we didn't buy were chairs. When we want to eat at the table, we drag this computer chair in, and a chair from another desk elsewhere in the house.
But now we are having an actual third human at the house. This will mean that we will either have to pull up the rocking chair, so I will have to be Granny on the Beverly Hillbillies during dinner, or we'll have to bring in one of the lawn chairs from outside. Which does not look insane at all.
Maybe I can be one of those women who never sit down during dinner. I could keep pretending that I have to jump up and check on the lasagna. Or I could say in our culture, the woman eats after the men do.
Alternatively, I could act like I'm too angry to come to the table. I could cross my arms over by the sink and huff. Or I could sit in Marvin's lap the whole time, and gaze at him like I'm Yoko Ono.
Fortunately, Mr. H. is like 22 years old or something. Probably most of his friends don't have a real dining room table and chairs. Perhaps he expects more from a couple in their 40s.
But maybe he is just excited about the free lasagna.