Conversation with my 18 year old son, whose room has a full bed and a twin in it (but not for long):
Me: Hey, so who stayed in your room last night?
Matt: Um, my room?
Me: Yeah, I heard a girl coughing in the middle of the night.
Matt: Oh, yeah, um, Meagan-and-I-rod.
Me: Meagan and IRod? What, are they homeless?
Matt: Nah, they both have homes, they just needed a place they can be together.
Me: You let a couple sleep in your room? Isn’t that awkward?
Matt: Nah, it was fine. Like I said, they just wanna hang together. It’s not like they were in the way or anything.
Me: In the way? That's nice they wanna be together, but this isn’t the place for that, Matt. I’m not running a youth hostel, you know, nobody’s paying me to rent rooms.
Matt: Blah blah blah, stuff he said I didn’t catch, mostly hemming and hawing.
Me: No, seriously kid, I’m done with taking in strays.
Matt: They’re not strays, Ma, they just wanted to hang. And they made me breakfast and everything. They left a box of pancake mix and syrup for us. Wasn’t that nice of them?
Me: Huh. Pancakes. Nobody made me breakfast, and I can’t even eat pancakes. Pancakes? I’m paying the bills here and I didn’t get any breakfast. (Here I laugh). God, how am I ever going to have a boyfriend with all this weird shit going on in my place? [Definition of weird: Strays and quasi-homeless young people crashing in my apartment on a fairly regular basis.]
Matt, looking at me all squinty-eyed: Mom, are you serious? You are a cool-ass woman, and any man that’s gonna hang with you will have to be pretty cool, too, all chill and stuff. This stuff won’t rattle him. He’ll be laid back, don’t worry about it, it’ll be no big deal.
Me: Yep, he will have to be pretty cool, Matt, that’s true, but regardless of how cool I am, or how "chill" he is, this can’t go on anymore. I'm not that chill. God [and here I wave my hands around], I do have standards, you know, and this just ain’t meeting ‘em. So, no more strays.
Matt: Ma, they’re not strays.
Me: Whatever. Enough already.