STRANGER THAN FICTION: FLORIDA-INDUCED COMPANY MAKES FOR CHALLENGES

Leaving The Other Half with instructions to clean up the house scares me.

I'm not going to fool myself.

The Other Half and I entertain a lot of company down here. Somebody is staying in our home at least one weekend a month. And that's how we like it -- surrounded by friends from back home who gasp at our beaches and listen to us brag about January weekends spent dipping our toes into the Gulf of Mexico.

But we know that the people are really FIC -- Florida-Induced

Company.

We lived in Cape Girardeau for more than two years. In that time, two people spent the night with us: Lynn, my best friend, and Katie, a nut we barely knew who got a job in Cape and asked if she could stay with us during her apartment search. Much to our surprise and dismay, Katie barely looked at a classified section in the three weeks it took her to quit her job and move back to Kansas City.

My favorite part was when she came out of her bedroom to shush us and tell us to turn down our own television. Initially, I figured it would be good karma to help an almost-stranger in need. Now I wonder if the good karma will be canceled if Katie ever steps in front of my car.

Anyway, we had some FIC last weekend and gladly greeted the most agreeable couple in the world. The male part of that couple was horribly allergic to cats -- we're talking sneezing, runny nose, water eyes, the whole enchilada -- but insisted we not put imprison Romy and Bosco in our bedroom. The couple didn't care where we ate or what we did.

That puts a tremendous amount of pressure on a hostess, leaving her to determine what activities will be so suitable for her guests that they will spontaneously combust with joy before returning home.

But I didn't know how agreeable they would be when I left for work Saturday morning. The house was a wreck -- in my prioritization of household chores, I put washing clothes, paying bills and grocery shopping first. Those are the high-tech activities Mr. Half can't seem to master, despite repeated instructions to "put the bright colors all in the same load" and "follow the shopping list exactly."

He was left with the grunt work: vacuuming carpets, Windexing mirrors and (barf) emptying the litter box. I poked his lifeless body at 8:30 a.m.

"Sweetie, I'm about to go to work, OK?" I said.

"MMmmmgrffff."

"You'll get the house picked up before our company gets here, right?"

"Grrrrrmmghhhaaa."

It was as close to a "yes" as I was going to get.

When I got home, the company was sitting in an apartment cleaned to Mr. Half's rigorous standards: There must be vacuum marks on the floor even if there's two inches of dust on the TV screen. Fortunately, the allergy-stricken husband's swollen eyes prevented him from seeing too well.

The couple left for their next stop in time for our second wave of company. It was a single guy we've known for about two years. This one didn't go as well, and it was all my fault.

Dave elected to stay in the car while Mr. Half and I picked up a few things for dinner. On our trip up and down the aisles, we passed by a cart of feminine hygiene products for 50 PERCENT OFF! In the world of feminine hygiene, that's practically unheard of, so I loaded up and went to the checkout.

As we're standing there, Dave appeared out of nowhere. "Wanted to get some gum," he explained. I wanted to die.

Then the cashier started ringing up my products at full price, which meant I'd be paying double what I expected. It was a tough call. The cashier was male. Mr. Half's male friend was standing right next to me.

My face already was becoming purple.

"As embarrassing as this is, I'd like to point out that those feminine hygiene products were in a bin marked 50 percent off," I blurted.

The teen at the cash register looked ready to pass out. He called the manager over. "She says these are half price," he explained.

The manager tried to tell me they were accidentally placed in the wrong bin.

"Why would 30 of the same item be in the wrong bin? I didn't just fish these out!" I said.

Dave and Mr. Half moved two feet away from me, attempting to appear as though they just HAPPENED to get in line behind this insane woman and her winged feminine products.

But I got my 50 percent off, dammit.

Mr. Half's family will be in soon for Thanksgiving.

Lucky for them, I've worked out all the kinks of entertaining FIC.

Imprison the cats immediately in case someone's allergic. Plan plenty of activities in case nobody knows what they want to do. And stay out of the grocery store for the length of the visit.

~Heidi Nieland is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian who lives in Pensacola, Fla.