Hotel Living At Its Finest

I love hotels.  No really.  I do.  I don’t know if it’s because someone makes my bed or because I can call room service when I get hungry.  I just love them.  I love the smell of the soap.  I love the fluffy pillows and down comforters.  I know.  I’m weird.  DH would much rather chew off his own arm than stay in a hotel, so we don’t do it often.

When my annual scrapbooking retreat comes up, I’m so delighted.  No laundry, no cleaning, no cooking.  And I get to stay in a hotel.

I’m not a picky hotel-stayer.  I don’t mind the humming of the A/C or the sound of the elevator shaft, or the noise of the ice machine.  I don’t even mind if there are people skipping, running or beat boxing down the hall.  But staying in a hotel does have its risks.

I shared a room with 3 friends.  2 to a bed.  That doesn’t bother me.  My bed-mate was a good friend from high school so she’s seen it all.  After scrapbooking all day and late into the night, we returned to our room completely exhausted, I just wanted to go to sleep.  And I did.  It was wonderful until about 2:00am when a large bang woke me.  Followed by plenty more of the same.  What the hell?  Is someone irish dancing on the ceiling?

I sat up and listened for a minute only to hear Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” really, really loud.  And it seemed to be stuck on the same verse.  With the bass turned to it’s deepest.  Then the sound of laughter.  Deep, man laughter.  Lots-of-men-laughter.  I was patiently waiting for the sounds to wake my roommates.  What the hell did these girls take before going to bed?  Ambien with a side of whiskey?

I waited for what seemed like an eternity for the noise to stop.  Surely, these men were raised properly and not by wolves.  Surely, they would realize the error of their ways.  Every expletive was running through my head.  I think I was in complete disbelief.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m pretty laid-back.  In fact, I can be a bit passive.  I don’t like to cause a scene and I don’t like a confrontation.  But my patience had just about worn thin.  So I got out my iPhone flashlight and made my way across the room to find the hotel phone.  In my hoarse voice, I shouted at the poor front desk woman that the party above my head needed to stop immediately.  Her reply?  “I guess you are trying to sleep, huh?”  No.  Actually.  Not really.  I like being a ball buster at 2am for no reason whatsoever.  She was very nice. I was just pissed off.  Sorry for the ‘tude front desk lady.

Of course, the sound of my voice woke my roommates.  Finally.  They weren’t too happy that I woke them.  They didn’t know what the fuss was all about.  Are you kidding me?  I am not known for having good hearing. DH and the kid are constantly telling me I am deaf.  But come on.  If I can practically make out the words to their conversation, surely even the hotel across the street can hear these clowns.

It took about 5 minutes, but the noise finally stopped.  I mean, really stopped.  Dead.  In it’s tracks.   I wonder what the front desk chick told them?  “Yo dudes, if you don’t stop the party the wacko lady downstairs is going to pretty much go postal on you so let this be your only warning.”  I like the thought that these tough grown men could have possibly been a little bit afraid of me.

The next morning at breakfast, I looked over every single man that walked in.  I believe I found them.  They looked something like this:

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I knew I had my men.  They sure were lucky I wasn’t in the mood to pick a fight.  Next time, it won’t be so pretty.

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year…NOT

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And I’m not talking about Christmas either.  The kid has been a member of the Girls Scouts since 2003.  I love the good ole’ Girl Scouts.  I talk them up every chance I get.  My daughter has learned so much from being a GS.  She can light a fire (I mean camp, and she better keep it that way), she can pitch a tent, she is a master crafter, she has learned respect.  And last but not least, she can make new friends AND keep the old.

One thing she is not good at…selling GS Cookies. Nope, somehow that has become MY job.  What happened to the days of those cute little girl scouts going door to door?  Perhaps it was the realization that there are perverts and child molesters lurking about.

Yup, so in order to keep her safe, I took over the job.  Her leader (God bless her, I don’t know how she does it…in other words, better her than me.) would like for each of them to have a goal of 50 boxes sold.  Sure right okay, as soon as I charter that first flight to Mars.

Look, I know people SAY they look forward to GS cookie time, but do they really?  I have been asking, begging, promising favors in return, for my friends, family, coworkers to buy for years.

It’s for a good cause.  Yes, you can freeze them.  No, you don’t have to pay now.  You’re on a diet?  Well you can donate cookies to the food pantry because they are so nutritious.  My personal favorite complaint: “but they are $3.50 everywhere else.”

So, every year, I moan, groan and bitch when I see that blasted cookie order form and start on my quest to fill the orders.

On my honor, I will try….oh, who wants cookies???

They Do WHAT On the Bus?

Back of School Bus

About 2 years ago, I started hearing these horrible stories about what goes on in the back of the school bus.  I was completely flabbergasted not to mention a bit freaked out.  I know I sound like my mother, but what is happening to the youth of today?

So, needless to say, I had to have the “talk” with my child.  I mean, she already got the generic Birds and Bees talk.  You know, the “you must wait until you are married for 5 years, and only if you really, really love your husband can you share that love in a special way that MARRIED men and women do” talk.  I was pissed that I had to go a bit deeper.  Damn you, stupid slutty girls.

Me:  Do you know what Oral Sex is?

The Kid:  Well, yes.

Me: (oh God) What do you think it is?

The Kid:  um…when you talk about sex?

Phew…ok, she’s still Pollyanna.  Now I had to, in a way that would scare the living shit out of her, tell my sweet little 12 year old what this Oral Sex was all about. Luckily, she was completely, out of this world, disgusted by the concept.  I can only hope this disgust lasts for, oh I don’t…EVER?!

As for the kids sitting at the back of the bus?  Some words of advice:  Boys, keep it in your pants.  Girls, keep your mouths closed, it ain’t all that.

For the Love of a Log

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Everyone knows how much I love the grocery store.  Well, I didn’t go just once this week, I went TWICE.  Why, you ask?  Because I’m the dumb ass who forgot something, or some things.  Forgetting stuff during Can-Can week is a mortal sin in my book.

I was expecting some friends over Monday night and in addition to some essentials I had, um…forgotten, I wanted to get one of those Dura-Logs so we could have a nice cozy fire.

Anyway, I can’t find the damn log.  I have been up and down every dang isle TWICE looking for it.  I wish Shop Rite would stop moving crap around.  To top it off, I can’t find a single staff member.

I’m ready to sock the idea when I finally see not one, but two store employees talking amongst themselves at the end cap of isle number 14.  I squeeze in as closely as I can to avoid being stampeded and stare at them for a good half minute hoping to catch their attention.  They look at me and continue on.  Great.

So, just to recap real quick…I’m pissed because I’ve walked all over the f’ing store not once, but twice.  I can’t find a single employee who can help me and when I do find an employee, I’m completely ignored.  Oh, and I’m dodging can-loving freaks like bullets.  Do I sound like I’m in a good mood???

Suddenly, I hear this — “look lady, pick a direction and move in it.”  When I look up, I realize he is speaking to me.  He reminded me of Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz with his fingers pointed in both directions, but not so cute.  “You’re holding up traffic.”  Geez, if he only had a brain.

The look I shot Scarecrow could have frozen the Amazon.  I think I actually saw fear in his eyes.  And the log?  I passed the whole blasted stack of ’em coming in the front door.