Aaaah, summertime. When all good wives go to the country and all good husbands go to their girlfriends.
It’s summertime. Take a houseguest to lunch.
Take them anywhere — just not to your house.
Houseguests, like cicadas, creep out this time of year.
But four-legged creatures sing, flirt, court, mate, make love, make buggy prenups, do their thing and then . . . done, finished, over.
The two-legged ones don’t know when to leave. Come Labor Day, they’re still around booking their old room for Halloween.
Another thing. There’s no old saying like: “Beware of cicadas bearing gifts.”
Same with freeloaders. If they bring anything at all, it’s usually one of those cockamamie candles that every house has more of than a Catholic church.
And where exists a book on “How To Please a Houseguest”?
Bed’s too high — they’ll fall off. Air conditioner’s too strong — they’ll get a cold.
Mirror’s too dark — they can’t see chin hairs. And this is a female yet.
Food is another scramble.
Host: What time you like breakfast?
Guest: Oh, whenever. I’m flexible.
Host: How’s 8 a.m.?
Guest: Oh, too early.
Host: 10 a.m.?
Guest: Oh, too late.
Host: 9? Guest: Oh, I never eat breakfast.
Also, what to do with them?
A sweltering day, they always need to borrow your sunscreen.
A dressy party, they forgot to pack an evening bag.
A busy afternoon, could they borrow your car for a quick hour?
A hike up the Alps, who knew to bring sneakers?
For entertainment, try a beach club. That’s an operation consisting of a large pool completely surrounded by partners.
Weekends, fresh from the salt mines, march the husbands seeking excitement, fun, laughs and, if it’s unavoidable, their wives.
If it pours you’re totally screwed.
How long can you play Scrabble or cheat on cards? Or, “Again we’re going to watch ‘Dancing With the Dodos’ on TV?”
I took guests to a summer stock play. The supporting cast were apprentices who paint the scenery and clean latrines. An apprentice is to a stock company what a D.P. is to a slave labor camp.
As for the leading players, we’re not talking Russell Crowe or Colin Firth. We’re talking more like a male version of Piper Laurie.
Trust me, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen the Eastgunk Players do “Hamlet” on a damp night in a barn.
Worst houseguests are the out-of-towners who need to be picked up.
They could have statuettes up the kazoo but if there’s no Ford, Honda or Caddy, you can shove their Emmy, Tony and Oscar.
One rainy Sunday I collected a London visitor who was — naturally — staying with a city friend. Naturally.
First incorrect address I had turned out to be a closed candy store. Nobody to ask. Candy stores don’t have doormen.
I ran out in the downpour to find one bell in the above brownstone. It stuck. I ran back to the car to find a cop ticketing me for double-parking. The candy store was closed. The cop was open.
I was now not only wet, I was also cranky.
I found a phone number. The voice said: “I’m running a little late. I’ll be right down.” She was a singer. This singer appeared so much later her voice had changed.
Everything wouldn’t fit inside so, back out into the drizzle, to rearrange luggage.
On top of my beautifully pressed outfit landed her suitcase and wardrobe.
She smoked. The car smelled more than she did. When the window opened so did her mouth. Couldn’t take the draft. The cool 98-degree temperature causes laryngitis and could kill her . . . This was a thought . . .
The window shut. So did her mouth. I was nauseous. She was nauseating. I wanted to say she should forget singing lessons. What she needed was driving lessons.
Wouldst that I couldst speak more about the joys of houseguests — except that I can’t.
And why can I not? And thank you for asking.
Because at this moment, I happen to have a houseguest.