I think I’m a less than stellar houseguest, because I worry that I am less than stellar. I want very much to be wonderful and noteworthy (and invited back), so I fumble and try to act spinelessly polite.

Of course, I am overreacting and listening to the voices in my head.

But, I will say this little factoid to anyone who may ever entertain the notion of entertaining me. You know how some people won’t answer questions like, “What are you in the mood for for dinner?” because they don’t want to be demanding and/or are trying hard to be polite? I’m not one of those people.

The reason that I say I don’t know what I want for dinner is that I don’t know. I never think much about food for dinner. It’s just I get hungry, and any number of things will sate.

Every now and again, I will be in a mood for something, like a plain, old burger and fries. And, at those moments, I say clever conversational tidbits like “Hey, want to go get a burger?”

Food may be the one arena in which my pathetic, shyness-enduced social awkwardness is not invoked.

I’ll keep you posted on booze.

It looks like today I will be doing some ethnic bonding with the boyo’s landlady. Most of the year, her Irish blood alcohol is curbed by a household full of both socially and physiologically curbed non-drinkers. Enter the non-drinker’s culturally predisposed drunkard girlfriend and what you get is a lovely afternoon drive to the local vineyards.

My plan is not to get shitfaced (both a word and condition of which M. isn’t entirely enamored). I can’t imagine the thrill of coming home from work and finding your visiting girlfriend passed out, “Hi, sweetie, how was work?” and then vomit on his shoes.