Lost Cousins Hitting Town? Run For It

It’s hot.

Sweat pools behind the backs of your knees in the exact spot where a family of mosquitoes recently dined. You stand in front of the open refrigerator reminding yourself that nobody really needs air conditioning.

Outside, barefoot kids lurch across the scorching sidewalk like sand crabs scuttling toward Heaven, the inflatable pool. Dogs, idle for days, pant with the vigor of Iditarod champions. The heat rises up from every surface in a wavy mirage.

This is not the time to make any rash decisions. Not the time, like, say, last winter, when you said to your long and gratefully lost cousin, Rufus:

“Hey, you should come out and visit us this summer.”

You probably figured summer would never come and neither would your cousin. Guess what? Rufus is coming and he’s bringing his incontinent Chihuahua, Don Diego, with him. Expect to be held hostage.

House guest season is upon us. Invitations extended with the implicit understanding that they would not be accepted are now coming due. It’s not that you don’t want to see these people. You just don’t want to see them now.

So when Rufus calls from the Circle K two blocks away and asks for directions, you’re tempted to steer him to the nearest Interstate. But something in you decency, cowardice or an ability to lie through your teeth says, “I can’t wait to see you.”

Then you hang up the phone and attempt to steam clean the house in three minutes. You really shouldn’t bother. Rufus won’t notice and Don Diego won’t care. They are a type of houseguest known as the Hounds of Hell.

Hell Hounds, often relatives, take the courteous “make yourself at home” literally. Only problem is, home for them is usually just this side of the landfill.

Grungy undies, sweaty shirts and moldy sneakers are tossed around the house like foul croutons in a wilted salad. Your house is the salad bowl. A fitting image since eating is the Hell Hounds favorite vacation pastime; anywhere, anytime, anything. This activity is closely followed by a lengthy and unsolicited sharing of post-meal body noises commonly reserved for more private moments.

Private? Forget about it.

Of course, you may not know anyone so gauche as Rufus and Don Diego. Your house guests might more closely resemble the Jack Astors.

Jack Astors, sometimes in-laws but usually formerly poor friends who bought Microsoft early, arrive with 14 pieces of luggage for a 10-day trip. They wash everything in Woolite and sniff at processed food as if it were hors d’oeuvres for the antichrist. Their favorite vacation pastime is shopping. Elitist shopping. Picking up that perfect little piece of Limoges, Chanel, Armani. Then tossing all their shopping bags down in a heap in your living room. The maid will get that. And by the way, you are the maid.

Or maybe your houseguests are from the Opposing View. Friend or relatives, they can be relied upon to disagree with you on every possible subject that may come up in any given 24-hour period.

Their favorite vacation pastime is being right. They can tell you why you shouldn’t have bought a Honda, what precisely is wrong with America, why your bridgework will fail and the conspiracy theory behind menopause. In a pinch, the Opposing View will also offer short movie reviews.

And then there are the few, the blessed, the Just Rights. Family or friends who fit seamlessly into your household. Their favorite vacation pastime is being a pleasure to have around. They are up for anything or nothing at all and both are equally appealing. They recharge the battery of your life.

They take the dog out, laugh at your jokes and eat your canned spaghetti sauce with the oohs and ahhs normally reserved for fireworks. You sit up talking late into the evening. In the morning you know that wherever you are together is both home and holiday.

The only thing you notice about their presence is that your life is more fun. The only thing you notice about their absence is how much you miss them.

Summer vacation is a lot like regular life. We’ve all known or been Hounds of Hell, Jack Astors or Opposing Views. And sometimes were Just Rights.

It’s hot. Don Diego is out of doggy Pampers. Expect to be held hostage.

Kathleen Corkery Spencer is a free-lance writer who lives in Spokane. Contact her care of The Spokesman-Review, P.O. Box 2160, Spokane 99201, or Kcorspence@aol.com