Toto (er, William Wallace) and I are back in our house and boy are we glad. I loved the hospitality that Cecilia and Valorie showed me last week, and Wallace had a wonderful time (as always) at his grandma’s pad, but it was time to come home.

I opened the door to my house with trepidation yesterday and fully expected to see a mess. The word on my street was that my renters…well, they were fond of the liquor. So much so that they drank all of mine, and invited my neighbors over for some, too. (But they did pay me back for it AND left me a bottle of Grey Goose, so luckily I didn’t have to act all redneck on ’em.) Much to my surprise, though, the place looked pretty darn good. They even stripped down the beds and took out the trash for me. Somebody’s mama raised them right.

I love Masters week in Augusta, but I’m really glad for it to be over. I feel like someone hit me with a truck and I sort of look like it, too. My give-a-damn was definitely busted by Sunday. This is one of those days where I would like nothing more than to go home and drink a glass of wine. Only…I don’t have any.

Dang renters.

Yep, it’s mine. It’s too bad that I won’t get to enjoy it, because starting today, strangers will be there.

I am not exaggerating when I say that if I needed to use my floor as a plate, I would.

In other news (and in case you care), my daily blogging will pick back up next week. Don’t give up on me, folks. Stalking golfers and hanging out in hospitality tents won’t last forever. Damn.

Homeownership finds me doing things I never thought I would do before, like meeting with the termite inspector for my annual report. The good news is that I’m termite free (knock on wood…get it?), the bad news is that my termite inspector kind of insulted me.

Now, I don’t think termite man (his name was Mike) really meant to be insulting with his question (and to be quite honest, I guess it’s a valid one), but – some things just should only be asked by people who know you very well. Not by people you just met.

Upon reviewing the termite report card, he looked at me and said, “So, do you live here all by yourself?” I replied, “Yep, all by myself. Well, and with him (pointing to my dog, Wallace).” With a puzzled expression he responded to my statement with, “Why’d you buy such a big house for just one person?”

Well, Mr. Termite Man, maybe one day I won’t be the only person living here – but maybe I will. What’s it to you, exactly?

After he left, I thought of the scene in Under the Tuscan Sun where the main character has a mini-breakdown over buying a house “for a life she didn’t have.”

This is the scene:
Frances: This house has three bedrooms. What if there’s never anyone to sleep in them? And the kitchen, what if there’s never anyone to cook for? I wake up in the night thinking,”You idiot. I mean, you’re the stupidest woman in the world. You bought a house for a life you don’t even have.”

Martini: Why did you do it, then?

Frances: Because I’m sick of being afraid all the time. And, because I still want things. I want a wedding in this house, and I want a family in this house.

That’s why, Mike the Termite Man. It’s called hope.