“Fitted sheet?”

“Fitted sheet.”

“Top sheet?”

“Top sheet.”

“Dream-fit cotton pillowcase?”

Mark passes me the dirty pillowcase I threw on the floor and I groan.

“No, the clean pillowcase, Doctor Distracto. If you’re gonna help me, and you must, you need to pay attention.” I hold up the quilt and give it the sniff test. How many times can you wash a comforter? I throw it at my husband and he pulls it across the bed.

“Do we really need to change the sheets every time we have company?” He’s whining like a girly-man. I give him the look reserved for ten-year-old boys who insist baths should be bi-annual. Our eyes lock. Alas, we are faced with yet another marker on the wall of disparity between men and women. A man wouldn’t think twice about sleeping in someone else’s bed scum.

“Fresh towels?”

“Fresh towels.”

“Shampoo, shower cap and complimentary sewing kit?”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Is this the face of a woman who’s kidding?” I point at my face with a select finger.

“Ahuh.”

“Complimentary breakfast tickets?”

“Complimentary breakfast tickets.”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think I was suiting up for an afternoon in the O.R. Well, it is a major operation, but one of the “we have unexpected guests coming again?” variety. It’s an operation I’ve performed about 1,437 times in the past twelve years.

I mean, really, crawl out of the woodwork? Where did all these friends and family come from? It’s only April, but according to my little black book, and taking into consideration my extensive family tree, this summer’s guest list has far surpassed even the Christmas card list. Could we really be this popular? Or did we somehow get plastered on the bathroom wall of the nearest tourist centre? I shake my head and place a mint on each pillow.

You’ll have to forgive the rant. After living in the Okanagan for more than a decade, you’d think I’d be a pro at declining queries for April to September visits. Let’s face it; I’m a failure at saying ‘No!’ In my opinion, if you’re fortunate enough to own real estate in the Okanagan, you need to be prepared for non-stop company. I throw the dirty sheets into the washer and thank God for the extra-capacity Kenmore. Love and friendship aside, and I may be stating the obvious, how do you spell… m-o-t-e-l?

I guess what it really comes down to is there’s good company and then there’s company who’ll be receiving phony address changes this winter. Good company does not believe dishes wash themselves, or your beer grows on trees, or your lifetime aspirations are to entertain them. Good company will surprise you with miraculous gifts like a clean load of towels (folded even!) or an offer to take your kids to the park for the afternoon so you can regroup. Most importantly, good company always agrees with you when you boast ad nauseum about how much better it is to live here then anywhere they may have the misfortune to live. (And, if I might be so bourgeois, really great company goes so far as to buy you presents like retro, rainbow-colored deck lanterns. For the record, they now get frequent-bedding points.)

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a social being and insanity loves company. I’m just gearing up for a long season of room-service and chamber-maiding. Life could be worse. As my husband would say, “You made your bed…”

Ahuh. And I’ve got 154 people lined up to sleep in it!