Dr. Bombay! Dr. Bombay!

Maybe if Dr. Bombay did not appear, a little Bombay Gin in the lemonade would work!

Deep breaths. Serenity now. Serenity now.

Busy hands, busy hands. The best way to calm yourself. Busy hands. Shred the cabbage for coleslaw.

Maybe this was a good thing. Unless there were disguised family members casing the neighborhood in unmarked cars and watching our every move so they could know when to converge on the house for a home invasion, it was just me and J. and the kids squaring off with Endora. I am sure even she would realize she was outnumbered in any kind of preconceived attack. The chance of "funny bithneth" was minimal.

And since she was the only guest, I could rest assured there was little chance of any real confrontation in front of the kids. No chance of a "So, about that 'fat old hen' comment you made..." interrogations.

And as for my other normal fonts of angst - my tenuous reputation for cooking and cleaning... There was little if any time to perform any last minute White Tornado act, so the house would be As Is. And cooking - half of it was J.'s - his birthday, his favorites.

But still, I wouldn't mind Dr. Bombay being on hand. Perhaps with that reviving gin and lemonade.

We made a (potentially life preserving) decision to eat inside in the A/C and out of the late afternoon sun...which would surely help with the beads of sweat forming on my upper lip and hair line. Pretty.

We sat. And we passed the bowls and platters and condiments. Dinner was underway. I angsted over adolescent breaches of manners. Apologized for cold butter (even though cold beats putrid any day of the week in my book). Regretted the absence of wine. Prayed for dinner to end without incident, and if it could not end without incident, that the incident itself would be swift and decisive. Preferably deadly.

Once the children had scattered in search of scooters and bikes and video games, I was happy to leave J. and his mom to talk while I cleared dishes and made a lengthy production of loading the dishwasher, scrubbing pots and pans until they sparkled, and lovingly storing leftovers. The safety of a familiar task a welcome asylum. Busy hands.

Then as it grew dark, Endora prepared to board the Vroom Broom for home and it became awkward. Even more so because my kitchen is the size of a minivan, and well, so is she. We made no eye contact. I offered her leftovers. She refused. She offered to help in the kitchen. I refused. J. kissed her goodbye. I waved like a dork.

And she was gone.

The checkered flag was waving.

Too soon to call a truce, but a baby step in the right direction.