No pressure or anything.

Grant’s mom is coming to see him this weekend. He has neither the room nor the inclination to have her stay at his house, so she is coming to the Tumbleweed.

I love the Tumbleweed and am confident that its rooms are among the cleanest, most comfortable, and cutest in the state of New Mexico. I don’t know what I could do to make it any nicer … but the idea of hosting my boyfriend’s mother for three nights still makes me very nervous.

Grant says I’m getting way too wound up about this. “The woman lives in an Earthship and wrote her master’s thesis on Lawrence Ferlinghetti,” he keeps saying. “She will be the first to assure you that she is flakier than a box of Kashi. Why wouldn’t she be happy to find her son dating a beautiful girl who lives in Birkenstocks and bluejeans and gets up early every morning to make breakfast for her guests and wash their sheets in a wringer washer?”

I guess he’s right, but I’ll still feel better after I’ve actually met her … which will happen in about an hour, according to the text Grant just sent me.

— Sierra

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