Pickles.

I was just now in the kitchen making pickles. We have a serious cucumber glut here, and, though I've already made 3 quart jars of bread and butter pickles, we got a bunch of small cucumbers in our box from the farm on Saturday, and they taste too bitter to eat raw, so I decided to try one jar of sour pickles, what they call "half sours" in New York.

Anyway, while I'm doing this, a young man wanders into the kitchen from the front of the house (J's room) looks around, sees me, and says, "Is there a bathroom back here?" Not "May I use your bathroom?" or "Hi, I'm so-and-so, a friend of A's. May I use your bathroom?" Not "Hi, are those pickles you're making? Can I use your bathroom?" Just "Is there a bathroom back here?" Like this is a gas station convenience store where some random guy is making pickles in the back room.

I kept my rebuke to myself -- that is so not the person I want to be -- and pointed him to the bathroom. When he was on his way out, I said, "Hi, I'm Steven. Who are you?" and he introduced himself and shook my hand. Whatever. He was cute.