As discussed when my sister was visiting, I might not be the best host as far as house-guests go. I’m a bit uptight, I fear, no matter how hip and cool I presume to pose.

But, in truth, I’m becoming downright crotchety this fine long weekend. I’ve become an old woman who cannot live without a nod to Emily Post and Miss Manners. M.’s buddy and old roommate has been here for a week, and it appears will be here another week. Not once in that time has he uttered the phrase “Thank you.” Not once, seriously. I’m not just being a ball-busting, girlfriend diva.

Not when he ate our food, not when he watched our TV, not when he slept in our bed, not when he borrowed some software (and then complained about how the programmers should have handled mapping and GPS, because as noted earlier, he knows everything).

I want to fucking hear it. Actually, I just want to be acknowledged in some fashion, as in it’s my house along with M. I’m not another visitor living off of M.’s largess. I fucking live here. Acknowledge it. And, for Christ’s fucking Sake, please STOP telling me what M. is like and what it’s like living with him. You haven’t been around for two years, and I’m sleeping with the guy. Do the goddamn math.

Previously, I had witnessed sort of an unwritten guy code among my guy friends and brothers, in which you kind of defer to the chick in her own house. You know, like not sacking out in the living room, hogging the TV, drinking a Big Gulp with your shirtless gut hanging out in remembrance of some imagined fratboy camaraderie. Or jumping on my computer without asking. Or basically assuming anything at all about how the house is run and things work.

(Right now I have a serious panty knot of twisted knickers from his not bothering to ask about recycling, despite there obviously being two bins and his previous having resided in the green, hippie, recycling Bay Area. Today, he used the recycling bin for his un-rinsed, sticky, multiple Big Gulp cups, complete with the trash-worthy straws and tops. I so enjoy picking up after big boy men.)

But, even if all of the above happened, I, and many in my chick sisterhood, would be cool and relaxed and not wanting to bitch, moan or stab, if only, if only, you would use a little etiquette and civility. Maybe ask if something is OK or how something goes. And, occasionally brush a little eye contact in my direction or act like I’m here and belong here.