House Guests

This particular Courtyard by Marriott radio ad hasn’t run for while, but I loved it because it dealt with that perennially sticky issue of house guests. It went like this: An entire extended family is staying in a house with one bathroom. A really irritating male relative takes it upon himself to schedule a shower time for every guest, starting with Aunt Martha. He warns that anybody violating the rules will be required to shower with the garden house. 

Flash back to 1972. My first husband, Jerry, and I – transplanted to Boston – often stayed with his parents at their home in Roslyn when we returned to New York. Assigned to sleep in his tiny childhood room with two twin beds perpendicular to each other, we would joke about having gotten the presidential suite.

Both middle children, it wasn’t lost on us that his older brother and his wife got to stay in a wing of the house that once served as a grandma apartment, and had its own bathroom. Jerry and I would grumble to each other about staying in a hotel the next time, but I don’t think we ever did.

My mother-in-law, Pearl, was a relaxed hostess, and if she was anything less than happy about our showing up for a few days, she never showed it. Though she would often guilt Jerry about visiting other relatives in the area, I don’t think he took her demands too seriously.  

I would be the first to admit that I’m anything but a relaxed hostess, despite my best efforts to change or at least pretend I’ve changed. Pearl’s visits to Boston sometimes coincided with Passover. We were living in a vast apartment in Brookline at the time, and without consulting me, she began giving her sister the grand tour, leaving a trail of matzo crumbs on the hardwood floors. Poor Jerry got an earful about what I considered an egregious breach of houseguest etiquette.

Years after Jerry died, I began dating a widower named Dennis, who’s now my husband. After his first wife died, Dennis always had a house full of guests. He joked about his house being a hotel, with him playing the role of concierge. My “new” husband is not one to worry about things like particles on the floor.

Dennis does cherish his privacy, which is why any time we have visited his grown children in New York or Chicago, we’ve stayed in a hotel. Similarly when in the past we went down to Florida to see my daughter and son-in-law, Daphne and Etan, we have booked a hotel room.

In addition to enjoying poolside chaise lounges and a gym, I’ve gotten to behave like a slob – tossing wet towels on the floor, just so that housekeeping knows I’m not going to be “green” and re-use them. I can also feel that I’m not doing anything to irritate the kids.

This weekend will be a first. Daphne and Etan have moved to Atlanta, and purchased their first home several weeks ago. With three bedrooms and three bathrooms, they have insisted that I stay in their home.

Knowing that they have stayed in our condo in Boston – putting up with my no shoes, beach sand or crumbs on the hardwood floors rule – I feel a little anxious about how Daphne and Etan will evaluate my performance as a houseguest. Of course I promise to re-use whatever towels they give me and spray the anti-mildew stuff on the shower after each use.

Should I ask Daphne and Etan to provide me with house rules? Oh, dear, am I starting to sound like that obnoxious relative in the Courtyard by Marriott ad?