I’ve hated having houseguests my whole life: It’s because when I was a kid my parents hosted a parade of leeches every winter, each one of whom displaced my younger brother and me from our bedroom. It was during the winter of 1974, when Auntie Rose and Uncle Frank spent three excruciating months with us, that my younger brother and I vowed that when we were grown we would never allow houseguests to displace our kids. This was a direct result of our discovery that Uncle Frank would “borrow” our toothbrushes on the rare occasions that he brushed his brown and mossy teeth.
As it turns out I have no kids, unless you count the 4-legged variety, but my feelings towards houseguests has not changed. That’s why as the weather up north turns cold and I begin to get requests from people I have not heard from since last winter, I am prepared. These potential guests have two distinct ways to wrangle an invite: Direct and indirect.
The first type of supplicants send an oblique text message with the expectation that an invitation will be forthcoming:
“Sure is cold up here in Chicago,” texted my college friend Richard. “Bet you’re loving the South Florida sunshine right now!”
“I’m surrounded by mountains of snow,” texted Cathy from Philadelphia. “I’m going stir-crazy.”
“We’re leaving on a cruise from Port Everglades,” texted Gerry, “but Tony and I don’t know where to stay the night before the cruise. Hotel rates are insane down there!”
These messages are not a challenge, requiring nothing more than an in-kind response: “It’s raining every day,” I texted Richard, “there’s more sunshine in Seattle this year!”
“Well, spring is just around the corner!” I texted Cathy.
“Have you tried the Motel 6 by the Interstate?” I texted Gerry. “Great rates and they change the sheets after every guest!”
The second type of potential guest is more direct. They make their request by phone assuming, incorrectly, that is harder for me to refuse someone in real time. But I am always ready with a stock excuse that they can’t quite respond to, so (if I’m lucky) they affect a hurt tone of voice and hang up quickly.
“I’m coming to Florida, “ said my cousin Joyce. “Is your spare room available?”
“Unfortunately, no,” I told her. “We’re renovating.”
“You said that last year, and the year before that,” she pointed out.
“Can you believe we’re still not done?” I asked.
Our sometime friend Joseph, a master salesman, was not only direct but ready to overcome every objection I raised.
“I’m coming to visit!” he said grandly, in a tone generally used to announce the Powerball winner. “Is your guest room ready?”
“I’m sorry, but my partner’s mother is spending the winter with us,” I lied, thinking I had hit a home run.
“Awesome!” said Joseph. “Old women love me. I can read to her, or make her some soup.”
I was silent. “Besides,” he pointed out, “you have three bedrooms.”
“The third bedroom is where the dog and cats sleep,” I told him breezily. “And I remember you have bad allergies.”
“I have Claritin,” he said, as though he had scored the match point.
“Not nearly enough, “ I said sadly. “Besides– with three litter boxes in the room you wouldn’t be comfortable.”
“But you only have two cats,” he said, correctly.
“You always need one more box than the number of cats,” I said, which is not a lie.
This gave him pause. “Well you could just move the dog and cats somewhere else for a couple of weeks,” he said coldly. “Couldn’t you?”
I suddenly remembered my childhood vow to never displace my kids. “No, “ I said, “I really couldn’t.”