Drop in? Drop dead.

Okay, that title's just a bit harsh. But only a bit. Since moving to the country, I've had to learn to master the art of the "drop in." Actually, I've had to master the art of being dropped-in-on, rather than being the drop-in-'er. And believe me, there is an art to looking happy when unexpected and/or unwanted guests show up at your door when you're a) naked, b) in the middle of doing something important, c) cooking something fabulous for two or d) all of the above.

I grew up in a home where the drop-in was considered a way of life. Everyone popped into my mom's place - friends, relatives, neighbours, students, etc. My mother never batted an eye (except for the time she was stranded on the basement stairs absolutely nude on a laundry run). And most of the time I welcome guests. I want our home to be known as a place that's fun to visit, and I hope that we're thought of us good people to be around. But let us get moved in, already! Wait until we cut the grass and unpack our underwear!

I'm being a bit cranky, because, quite honestly, I don't begrudge folks their curiosity about our new place. It's on the main road by the lake and everyone and their cousin's dog have driven past it over the years when it was forlorn and unoccupied. So now that we're bringing new life to Someday Farm, I don't blame people for wanting to stop in and have a quick peek. I'd probably do the same myself.
I just hate the fact that I can't scamper around in my skivvies for the next few months until people have satisfied their curiosities.