Whenever the doorbell rings, I get excited as if it’s going to be my friends coming over to play. I should move on. As an adult, the only people who ring the doorbell are moochers who want something from you. But I still answer the door. I’m nostalgic and apparently a bit slow, OK?
Anyway, this afternoon, two post-teens but still not grown-ups were on my porch. They asked, “is the woman of the house home?” Alright, so in their defense, I had just spent a couple hours cleaning the house and patching grass, so I was a bit made down from my normal hottness. But still, did they think I was a high schooler? Even if they thought I was a student who came and visited her parents on the weekend, I would be a student with not only my Bachelor’s degree, but also my Master’s and even my PhD completed. I’d be working on whatever comes after that (now I’m wishing I had spent all these years in school doing something with my life – oh well, I wouldn’t have used them in the workplace anyway).
So I responded tartly, “I am the woman of the house. I own this home,” just in case the first statement wasn’t clear enough. I aim to intimidate, since they looked about my age and I’m guessing based on the way they reacted to me that they still live with their parents. Then they sputtered the way the would have originally had I been made up in my normal hottness.