There was the promise of making bank off the masses who wanted to be a part of history. And then there was the reality: Everyone knows someone who lives in D.C., or close enough, and a lot of them had no qualms about asking to mooch. No, my fellow D.C.ers, we didn’t make money. But we did make beds.
Some houseguests are welcome. Those are the ones who know that if they’re sleeping on a couch in a small apartment, they fold up the sheets after not oversleeping every single day for three days. They know to wash their own damn dishes and maybe, just maybe, yours while they’re at it. They know to throw away their stinky Chinese takeout containers in the trash and not leave them on the counter. They do not snore to rival a chainsaw, they do not stretch their clothes and equipment throughout your home, and they’re aware that if you have a 12-pack of soda in the refrigerator, they’re welcome to one or two, but not 10 without replacing it.
Today is Wednesday, Jan. 21. The day that, with luck and limited patience, our houseguests leave. It’s been nice having you. But not that nice.