This weekend I am a Hostess. (I want to say "I am Hostess" but this seems wrong, makes me out to be some sort of packaged snack cake.) This is odd. By chance and circumstance, I almost always find myself being the guest; to have someone visit me, well, it's nearly unheard of! Vast distances and national borders are apparenty something of a hinderance to weekend getaways. I am, admittedly, feeling a bit of stress. I have no food. I should have gone shopping--but when? I look at the food I have to offer: tomatoes, half a ham, a box of triscuit. It seems somehow inadequate. Plus, I plan on acting like a bad hostess: I'm going to sleep in. A lot. This long weekend is my only chance to catch up on sleep, and I fully intend to take advantage of that. How rude.
And there is always stress when one's guest is late. I do not mind the lateness; only my mental visions of crashed, anonymous vehicles, visions of unending traffic jams and irate border guards who decided, on a whim, to detain anyone who might be foolish enough to visit me.
I am a worrier. It's a full time job.