Tell me why I loaded the dishwasher before "Brian" came over.

Tell me why I cannot welcome any contractor from any home repair company to simply analyze drywall cracks, inspect the foundation and offer one of three estimates without worrying about how the stupid little interior of the house looks, the least of my problems.

Tell me why I am compulsively convinced my home is the messiest, most disastrous abode a construction professional has ever set foot inside, the same way I am convinced my body is the most repulsive one the dermatologist has ever encountered during the annual skin cancer screening. Tell me why I assume all the other homes workers visit look like the luxe New Jersey manor of Carmela Soprano that time she changed out her bathroom wallpaper.

Tell me why I put away the party-sized bottle of Absolut vodka right before Brian's arrival, hiding the moat of clear liquor that was only out in the open because we recently had a party that necessitated a party-sized bottle of vodka. Tell me why I didn't want Brian thinking I was sitting around drinking from a party-sized bottle of vodka at 9:55 a.m. Tell me why I need Brian's moral endorsement.

Tell me what in the trash suddenly smells so bad!!!!!

Tell me why I said, "Oh, sorry about these piles of laundry!" as if he randomly caught me doing a cute chore, when the truth is that the piles of laundry are always there, shape-shifting into a novel Lusus Naturae of pants and T-shirts and socks and bras.

Tell me why it is so terrible to be perceived.

Tell me why I am convinced Brian will be nice to my face but later convene with other home improvement specialists at the pub and talk about this one lady who had a troubling number of costume wigs and realistic foam Renaissance weapons.

Tell me why I just asked Alexa to play lo-fi hip-hop in the background.

Tell me why I care if a person I've asked to crawl beneath my house in the mud and mold and rat droppings, someone I may never see again in all my natural days, someone who is likely not going to insult me because he would like to sell me goods and services, glimpses the nonstick pan in which I recently made grilled cheese. Tell me what difference it will make if Brian sees a tumbleweed of cat hair beneath the TV console, or a pile of credit card offers on the table, or a rumpled Hello Kitty sleeping bag last used in a living room pillow fort. Tell me how my home's current structural problems will disappear if, during this 90-minute business consultation, Brian finds himself transported to a more pleasant mental space, as if he is having a steam facial at the Waldorf Astoria and not explaining various methods of steel jacking and mold entrapment.

Tell me why I lit a candle.

Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephhayes on Twitter or @stephrhayes on Instagram.

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