Andersons

Others are overly polite. They won't make a move without first asking if it's all right. And ask in the most irritating way. "Would it be OK if I have an apple? I don't have to. It's no big deal. Just thought, you know, if no one was going to eat it. Maybe somebody was. Say, I have an idea, I could have half. I'll put the other half away. In case somebody wanted it. I don't want to be a bother." You want to scream, "Eat the freakin' apple, already! The whole thing. Every bite. Just be careful not to choke on it because you're driving me so crazy I can't be trusted to call emergency medical personnel!"

Then there are those guests who constantly break arrangements. "Gonna go see a buddy," they say on their way out the door. "Let's get together for dinner. Is 8 OK?" 8 comes. No houseguest. 9. No word. 10. You're trying to decide, Should I worry or be angry? (My advice: Be angry. You'll be right 99 times out of 100, and on the rare occasion that you're wrong, you can easily make up for it by feeling bad, no big deal.) 11. You go to bed. Late the next morning, you finally see them again. They're emerging from their guest bedroom, moaning about a hangover they're nursing from all the fun they had with their other friends the night before, the friends with whom they were having so much fun, they didn't have time to call and apologize about not making it to the dinner you spent half the afternoon making.

The list goes on and on.

Which is why I'm a firm believer in the established Fish Rule of Houseguesting: After 72 hours, houseguests, like fish, start to smell. Since you can't use houseguests for chowder, you have no choice but to throw them out.

But with the Andersons, 72 hours came and went. No odor. One hundred and twelve hours. Not even a scent. In fact we made it through whatever seven times 24 is without so much as a whiff of rottenness.