I probably would have dreamed about this sort of thing when I was 18 years old -- being crammed into an apartment full of women.

I would have been dizzy at the idea of it and inclined to do ridiculous and foolish things, like math. I would have tried to work out in my head how many square feet of womanage I was living amongst, and what percentage of my apartment would be female if they were floor timbers or some such thing.

Two of my wife's sisters have come to stay with us for a few days, and I can't say that it has been what my 18-year-old self would have imagined. I, the masculine 25 percent of the household, have been relegated to my bedroom to read and stare at the wall and wonder whether my window-unit air conditioner is supposed to be making that noise.

Meanwhile, my wife and her sisters have become a miniature sorority. The apartment is filled with the smells of various shampoos and hair products. And there are approximately 17 million bags strewn about, each containing some item of makeup or flowery-smelling thing.

I can hear them now, in the other room, talking in excited and exclamatory ways ("He did what?! No! Oh, my gosh!"), and then bursting into laughter. They will do this until 2 a.m. At any moment, I expect them to start putting together a dance routine.

No, really, they dance. My wife's family sings and dances and puts on little skits for one another. I married into the Osmonds.

For my wife and her sisters, the bonds of sisterhood are especially strong, and she is delighted to have them around. So delighted that I am going pretty much unnoticed, only called upon to provide driving directions or play the didgeridoo.

It's an instrument played by the Aborigines. My one party trick is picking up the didgeridoo that sits in the corner and playing it until I see the boredom wash over people's faces -- there is only so long you can hold someone's attention when playing an instrument that has just one note.

Then I shuffle back to the bedroom and discuss the Minnesota Vikings with my wife's teddy bear.

In the morning, I will have to figure out how to shower and get ready for work without:
1) Ever being naked.
2) Waking any of them up.
3) Swearing like a drunken sailor (as I usually do in the mornings).

I feel like a guest in my own home. I am the lonely, forgotten, unwanted quartile.

It is nice to see my wife so happy. In the days before her sisters' visit, my wife cleaned our apartment to a state of spotless perfection that I had not seen since we moved in.

Her excitement is easy to understand. My wife lives thousands of miles away from her sisters. One lives in Utah, and the other in Houston. Distance, finances and obligations keep them apart far more than they would like.

And, of course, they are sisters.

There is something immensely special about sisterhood. I know this because there are so many movies and books with the word "sisterhood" in their titles, like, "The Great Sisterhood of Unbought Stuffed Dogs."

I have a brother, so I can relate a little bit, but something tells me it's just not the same. For one thing, I never really miss my brother -- I always take the time to aim.

That joke is about 200 years old, and no doubt one of the reasons my brother doesn't miss me all that much. Also, he lives in the same metro area as I do -- I see him at least once a week.

So, I am doing my best to stay out of the way while several square feet of women reconnect and re-establish whatever that wonderful thing is that exists between sisters. I listen and I enjoy sitting here, in a way.

The laughter coming from the other room is strong and full and clear and echoes through the apartment. I can pick out my wife's laughter and it makes me feel warm. I can make my wife laugh, but not quite like this.

And then I hear her telling them about me, about some dumb thing in my life that I think is important, and there is excitement and happiness in my wife's voice. And I can tell that she is proud of me. She hasn't forgotten me at all.

This house full of women thing is alright. I wonder what percentage of an acre they would be.

Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.