The summer months bring out the guests

Are We There Yet?

Lori Clinch

The funny thing about the summer months is the abundance of drop-in visitors. Funny, that is, if you’re a neat freak with a dusted coffee table. But if your laundry has taken over and your mirrors lack luster, it’s about as funny as an elderly aunt who stops in sporting white gloves.

Generally speaking, I take my housekeeping with a grain of salt. As the old saying goes, “If you came to see me, come on in. If you came to see the house, call and make a two-week appointment.”

Or, in my case, a two-year appointment, complete with forms filled out in triplicate.

Yet, when my nephew, David, stopped in last week on his way home from Spain, I couldn’t have been happier to see him. I simply started clearing a path through the house. I grabbed running shoes, baseball gloves and tripped over a basketball on my way to move the laundry basket off the couch. The kids recognized the look on my face and quickly ran to their rooms to shove dirty clothes under their beds.

We were busily catching up on all of life’s recent events when the doorbell rang again. Under normal circumstances, I couldn’t have been happier to see cousin Minnie. That is, if normal meant a cleaning service and freshly applied mascara. I gave her a hug with one arm as I shoved a dirty cereal bowl at our 8-year-old with the other.

While Minnie discussed the benefits of rhubarb jelly with David, I ducked out of the room to try to reverse the damage that the state of our house may have caused to my reputation. As I was busily stashing dirty socks in our home office, I had the foresight to check the messages on the answering machine. There was the usual, “This is your mother! Why don’t you ever call me anymore?” And the proverbial saw blade salesman calling to leave a message about a sale that we simply cannot miss, and then there was THE message. The message of all messages. The message that said, “Hi, Lori, this is your good and tidy friend, Veronica, and my handsome husband, Rolley. We’ll be in town on Saturday and thought we’d stop by for a visit about 6:30 or so.”

“David!” I ran through the living room screaming. “What day is it?”

“Sabado.”

“What?”

“Sabado is Spanish for Saturday.”

Because now is a good time for a lesson on the days of the week in a foreign language.

“Today is Saturday?”

“Si.”

I looked at the clock and it was 6:33. I broke into a sprint, planning to grab this and to stash that. I told the children to man their stations, gave a dust rag to Minnie, and threw an apron at David and told him to start scrubbing dishes.

“But we’re company, too,” Minnie and David said in protest.

“Yeah, well, you just got bumped down to nonvisitor status. Now start scrubbing pots.”

We almost had a countertop cleaned when the doorbell rang. Imagine my surprise when I opened it and didn’t see Veronica and her handsome Rolley as expected, but Monica, my old friend from college, and her husband, Raymond.

“We would have called,” explained Raymond, “but our cell phones don’t get service in this state, and you always said to stop in anytime.”

I swiped some debris off the couch, burnt up a batch of cheeseburgers, stuck a limp dandelion in a vase and called it entertaining.

Entertainment it was. Right up until Ralph, my husband’s friend from high school, happened by.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he said as he handed me a bottle of wine, “so I thought I’d drop in.”

“Join the crowd,” I replied as I popped the cork with my teeth and then took a swig straight from the bottle. “Let me find you a place to sit down.”

When Melanie, a companion from my old neighborhood, rang the bell, I was ready for anything. I invited her in, gave her what was left of the wine, changed the sheets in a dirty bedroom and apologized in advance for the condition of the latrine.

By the time cousin Virginia showed up unannounced at 8 p.m. on her way through town, I no longer cared about the state of the house. I ushered her to a folding chair and pushed her up to the table where David was busily teaching the children to say filth in Spanish.

“I can’t believe you’re having a dinner party and didn’t let me know,” said my husband as he walked in the door 30 minutes later.

“I’m sorry,” I replied with sarcasm. “Next time I’ll call.”

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is [email protected].