The calls started coming in as soon at the election results did.

"So, Veronica," the caller would begin, "what's up for inauguration?"

The query seems innocent enough—if you don't live in Washington, D.C. But if you do live in the District—as I do—you soon realize that people don't really care about your plans for inauguration. They just want to know if they can book a flight to come crash on your couch.

No. No. And HHHHELLLLLL no.

I'm not being mean or stingy, I swear. I understand the yearning to be a witness to history. In fact, three of my close friends have secured spots on my air mattress, on the loveseat and in the pullout bed; I'm quite excited about our little reunion. But the irritation comes when either:

A.) You get requests from people you haven't heard from since the Attack of the Hanging Chads.

B.) Folks decide to just invite themselves to your house.

"Oh, it'll just be me, my husband, our dog and three janitors named Ted. We won't be in the way."

I live in a tiny two-bedroom basement apartment with a counter for a kitchen. Not cool.

Luckily, I'm not the only person who's become a target for self-inviting inauguration guests. My roommate's aunt told her that she and some colleagues would be "stopping by" our apartment until "things got started" on Inauguration Day.

"There will be five of us," she stated plainly.

My roommate was not amused; I could tell by the length of the text message she sent me.

"I told her we have people staying with us and that they'll probably be sleeping in the living room. She didn't seem to care."

She continued: "I plan on calling her back and telling her to find somewhere else to go." Then she concluded, simply: "I'm annoyed."

One of my co-workers said her acquaintances started putting in requests on Election Night. "I was getting text messages that said, 'I'm coming to inauguration!'" she told me. "I was like... 'Okay...?'"

Since then, she and her partner have collectively decided to let about six people stay at their house.

"I haven't heard from any of the people who sent me texts," she said. "So, I'm hoping they don't just show up like, 'We're here!'"

Meanwhile, my best friend has resigned herself to the fact that her one-bedroom abode will inevitably become a shelter.

"If everyone who says they're coming actually comes," she told me, "I'll have eight people in my house."

One of those eight includes an old friend from her hometown.

"I didn't even know she was staying with me!" my girl exclaimed. "I knew she was coming, but I thought she was staying with relatives. I only found out she was staying here when my grandmother told me. And Grandma found out from her pastor."

"At least you have the space," I told her. She lives in a spacious high-rise in Silver Spring, Md., about 15 minutes outside of the city. "I barely have space to sit, and people are just inviting themselves over."

"Un uh," my girl frowned. "You need to tell them. This is not the Boys and Girls Club."

And she's right. It's not.

…but do you think they'll have room there?

Veronica Miller is writer and radio producer living in the heart of Washington, D.C.