ProudMary

Autumn Rant, Chapter: The Idiots

I'm dead-dog-beat.  I remember this from last fall.  You run, run, run all summer, looking towards Labor Day salvation, only the people...they keep coming.  Now we're at the start of the Fall Foilage Foliage season, and we're still hoppin!  It's a stupid thing to bitch about, I realize, "all this business."  I'm happy to have it, absolutely.  But with the business comes a lot of work, and of course, the idiots.  For example...

Lady calls a few weeks ago, taking our last available cottage for Columbus Day weekend.  It's a small one, attached on one side and really only meant for two, though it can, and has, slept up to four in a pinch.  She's got a family of four, and so I warn her, repeatedly, but she wants to go for it, and who am I to say what's good for her?  Parties of the same size have enjoyed that cottage before, many times.  So anyway, she shows up last night and the first words out of her mouth are "do you have any cancellations for a larger cottage?"  Ugh.  No, lady, we've been booked for this weekend for a month.  Believe it or not, this place is pretty popular!  Then we're apprised of their thoughts in a series of complaintative visits.  First, they didn't realize it was attached.  Then, "it's so small!"  Then they don't like that there's a dog next door. Then---get this---the stove's flames are too high.  They're worried about their baby getting hurt by it.  Now, I don't mean to point out the obvious here, but 1) babies should generally be kept away from all lit stoves, high or not.  2) does it really matter how high the flames are when we're worried about a very short human here?  and 3) use a different fucking burner, for christsake.  Maybe one on the back, where the little people can't reach?  I give up.  I don't know if it's a lack of common sense, or grasping at straws to be let out of their reservation.  Despite that I told them yesterday we'd do exactly that, let them out of it and rebook the room for the next two nights, which I'm confident we'll be able to do, no problem.  Honestly.  Assholes.

Unsomniac

It's 1:30 in the morning and I can't go to sleep.  It's not insomnia, more like stubbornness. I can't seem to let the day end at a reasonable time lately, no matter how badly that weighs on the next day.  What is it?  There's certainly a precious solitude, everyone's in bed and unable to ask for anything.  It's just me and the pretty crickets.  The doors are closed, so even if a customer comes down with a nasty case of assholery I can't be bothered.  And there's a tinge of unwillingness for what tomorrow might bring, as though I've achieved a certain victory in coming to know this day that I don't want to relinquish.  It's a game I'm certain to lose, as my eyes feel thick and blurry.  Yawn and goodnight.

Almost September

I've been granted a short reprieve from my most dreaded duty.  The generous Cap'n has taken the kid to bed.  I can hear them sorting it all out in the bedroom, low murmurs punctuated with little boy whines and the occasional refreshing giggle.  I can tell he's trying to use logic on a two year old, which seems to be going about how you'd expect.  Yes, the little baby that used to live in my house turned in to a full-fledged boy, just this past week it seems, he sprouted long legs, a neck, and lost three quarters of his baby belly.  Luckily he's still totally adorable.

My purpose for this visit, actually, was to memorialize how shitty the past two weeks have been.  We coasted through the whole summer with nice, happy, easygoing and yes, even complimentary guests.  I guess we grew confident of the place, assuming that it wasn't just a lucky streak, but that all the improvements had finally reached a worthy threshold where everyone was finally happy.  Not so. 

I believe it all started with the family of five in cottage six.  Amazing how one group can break the happy silence and jinx the place for god knows how long.  They arrived at 1 pm for a 4 pm check-in (which happens all the freaking time) and were extremely pissy that their cottage wasn't ready.  Then, we were too close to the road.  Then, we weren't child-friendly, which made me want to throw rocks at their kids to show them just how unfriendly I could be.  You can imagine my outlook for their stay.  So, when they suggested that they only stay one night I said fine.  I would have been happier if they'd just left right away.  Particularly when the mother barged into our office at 9:53 pm stinking drunk, shoved the service bell off the desk (by way of ringing it, evidently), and accused me of throwing a fan on her sleeping baby.  Well, practically.  The fan fell on her kid and for some reason this was my fault.   

Then last weekend were the band of Tibetan folks who dropped off just before closing, kept us up until 2 am with their noise, and then destroyed a quilt and mashed food and dog shit into the carpet in their rooms.  I'm not even kidding!  The same weekend also marked the return of one of our favorite Floridians who gave us an intestinal plague last Christmas, and a superior vegan who lectured us about our lack of a compost pile.  Sigh.  In fact, everyone last weekend had some sort of miscellaneous problem with us, not least of which were the lovely couple form England who found their cottage to be several things, none of them nice: "basic," old-fashioned," and "uncomfortable."  What hurt was that they weren't assholes.  They just simply found our place to be unacceptable.  They were actually really nice about it.  Paid us for one night and were on their way.  It's easy to dismiss the jerks, but when totally sane and pleasant people tell us things about our place that we know to be true, well, it sticks with us for a long time.  The trick is to not take it personally, I know.  To recognize that we are not synonymous with this property.  At least until every aspect is as we would like it to be.  Until then, I guess it's our jobs to plow through the improvements and take the hits as we must, and hope that we don't get burned out before we're done.

Anyway, the happy bit is that financially August was sparkling, we've been busy and still showing growth over last year, and I suppose that in some respects that's what counts.  Now we can look forward to to the cooler and much more manageable Fall.  And!  We are going on a vacation in September.  To the beach, and we are totally not beach people, but it couldn't matter less where we're going.   For four whole days, we won't be here and that's just grand. 

Lunatics Welcome

Two years ago one of the drawbacks of moving here was leaving a perfectly good hairdresser behind in the city.  She was from New Zealand and had hair the color of Kool-Aid, and she was awesome.  I miss her.  In the meantime, I've vacillated between letting my hair sadly slump beyond where it should, sort of bad-70s-school-picture-esque, and infrequent visits to a woman who was very cool and nice, but who, like most hairdressers, wanted nothing more than to give me the dreaded anchor woman hair.  Boring, one-dimensional, bobble-headed ickiness. 

Then last week I gathered the courage to ask someone where they got their hair done.  I hate those sorts of personal questions of strangers, but I had to do it, or start planning trips back to the city every eight weeks, which seemed silly.  There must be good people here too.  Anyway, unfortunately, her excellent cut was from a talented-but-retired hairdresser girlfriend (drat), but she recommended a guy downtown, though I sensed there was a backstory that I wasn't getting.  I went yesterday and I have to say, I don't know if it's moving to bumfucknowhere, or my advancing age, but lately I've really come to enjoy the occasional exposure to complete characters.  This guy didn't stop talking or touching my head until I was back beyond his doors and on the street.  He was unashamedly full of himself, and somehow yet very welcoming and endearing...clearly enjoying himself and it was infective.  And, he executed that fast-action flourish haircutting thing with great skill.  Truly, he really did know what he was doing. It's sort of asymmetrical, edgy, and definitely interesting. 

Though, I have to say that I do sort of wish he hadn't used my head as a discussion tool amongst the various people in the salon.  He was in the heat of talking about what he "does," really taking center stage, when he grabbed the clippers and pressed it to my temple, saying "And we can do THIS!" shearing the hair and leaving an odd, high, severe spot of a bang, and I visibly winced.  The first thing I did when I got home was run to the bathroom and knick that spot up a bit so that I didn't look like backup singer for Bowie.  But other than that, it was all fun and flair and I had a good time.  And I (think I) love my hair.  I just need to let it...um...grow on me.  I can only assume it will.

Little Update

Amazing how a few months can fly, ain't it?  If it's any consolation, I've been unbelievably busy.  Add that to my increasing ambivalence about continuing to write here and ninety days goes by unremarked upon.  But, I'm upset that I've left this thing languish, this running commentary on my life now has a significant puddle, and I'm going to try to make it up.  Plus, I think my vocabulary is declining by the day, and it's scaring me.

So, the most significant event by far has been the arrival of our new and most precious daughter, whom we've named Eve.  She arrived as the tiniest of tiny babies (ok, not really, but to me she was minuscule) at just six pounds, and has been nothing but a delight ever since.  It appears that we once again lucked out with a mellow and charming baby.  She's smiling and beginning to laugh now, which is such a relief, I was starting to think she was a permanently stoic little thing.  I'm still working on the birth story, and I'll post it, or a mercifully abridged version of it, here when I'm done.

The other stuff is just a mishmash of coping with new siblings (Poopies is doing really well with all of it, though his poor over-sucked thumbs may never recover), a seemingly endless stream of customers (we're very busy, and so very tired and looking forward to September), visits from relatives (thank god for the help, particularly since our babysitter was MIA in Germany for the first six weeks) and general readjusting to our new expanded family unit.  I was frankly overwhelmed with it all for the first couple of weeks, but I'm doing better now.  My only wish is that Eve had arrived when we weren't busy, so we could spend a few quiet weeks all getting to know each other.  Instead, it feels like we're doing it in daily five minute increments.

So that's it for now, just stopping in to say hi and how are you.  Time to head out and work in the heat and humidity.  I hate August.

Runny Memories

Every few years, the Cap'n gives me an unforgettable, alcohol-soaked experience that makes me check my pockets to see whose bleak and lothesome life I've unwittingly tripped into, and then, later, thank my lucky stars that it happens so infrequently.  I should probably let such tales lie in the beer-soaked ground, but hey, it's not my fault it makes for a good story.

Last time, it was a spectacular tears (not mine) and vomit (also not mine) soaked journey home from a wedding using various forms of public transportation and a very pissed-off cab driver.  I'm sure there are people in the city who still remember the culmination of that night, the Cap'n's Technicolor display out the window of the car during gridlock on the Queensboro Bridge, while I lovingly propped his ass on my leg so as to allow him to clear the safety window that only went down half way.  Words could not convey his regret and apology the next day, particularly after I filled him in on the details, which also included careening and collapsing into the middle of a busy Union Square street, and using the wedding centerpiece as a puking focal-point.  Poor guy.  Pretty stuff.

I had a feeling I was in for it again when our friends pulled up with two cases of beer, a bottle of Jameson's, and a big bag of weed.  Out of the party of four, two were pregnant, so some quick math tells you the sheer insanity of the ratios we were dealing with that night.  My pleas of making it last through the weekend were placated but ultimately ignored.  They were having such an amazing time, those two.  They were like brothers.  Very, very drunk brothers.  This night's atrocities included simple yet embarrassing annoyances...one count of sloppily attempting to welcome late-arriving customers who were already taken care of, one count of rousing me past midnight to check-in some folks who dropped by and needed a room, and thirty counts of then forgetting they were in the room, deciding upon that room for a 3 am guitar jam-session, walking in on the poor sleeping people, scaring the bejesus out of them and making us the official worst innkeepers of the year.

For some reason, in both scenarios, I'm pregnant, and therefore stone-cold sober to appreciate the subtleties and specialness of the occasion.  Perhaps this will be our last foray into both pregnancy and blinding inebriation?  I think that would be just fine.

Lend a Hand

I need some help, and my anonymous friends in the computer are the perfect solution.  We've found a name for the wee lass that we both agree that we love.  We...just don't know how the rest of the world will respond. 

Tell me, and don't laugh...do you think it's a crime to name a baby "Cher"?  Should we worry about constant comparisons to the diva herself, despite her fading popularity?  Because, I doubt if in 10 years our little girl or any of her peers will be much aware of an old but stretched former celebrity who, let's face it, other than inspire a lot of drag queens, didn't really achieve all that much in her musical or on-screen efforts.  But of course at the same time I don't want to doom the poor girl to a lifetime of hating her name, and I suppose us by extension.

So, go ahead, be blunt, be honest.  What do you think?

Impending Business

Wow.  Some sweet person sent me a comment just to see if I was ok, presumably since I haven't posted since before we all learned that duct tape is useless in at least one respect.  I was blown away by the sweetness of that, truly (by the comment, that is, I am decidedly less over-emotional about warts).  So, thanks, person!

So, what I've been doing, other than gestating, is mostly trying to figure out how the results of that particular project will occur, particularly on the day-of.  The logistics are killing me, frankly.  We seem to have unyielding responsibilities spilling from every pore, to the point that leaving for up to 12 hours is likely to result in our entire lives utterly unraveling.  There's the Pooper, the business, and the damn dogs, I'm less concerned about the damn cats.  Last time around, I delivered three weeks early, which has has translated to my need to make the necessary arrangements last approximately an entire month.  Everyone thinks I'm making a huge deal out of nothing, and I suppose that is more than likely.  I know it will all work out.  My poor mother has agreed to indulge me in regard to Poopies, thank god.  I only hope she realizes that she may need to wear several hats, some of which are rather unattractive.

And did I mention that we have some necessary renovations in mind before the baby comes?  Yeah.  Another elephant is added to the room.

We've got a wedding party here this weekend, not the bride and groom thank god, our digs are happily not chic enough to attract that kind of high-maintenance.  I usually dread wedding parties, what with their irons and hairdryers and snippy attitudes, but this is a good group, youngish (late 20s/early 30s) and laid back, just the way we like 'em.  I would like them all the more if they didn't all seem to resemble each other despite lack of family ties.  It's a little odd, and saps my confidence when they come in and start asking questions.  All the men are very tall, very thin and very pale.  They do have differing haircuts, but with me not being in the habit of mentally logging hairstyles, I'm a little behind. 

Seems like it's that way all over these days.

The State of Affairs

Ants!  There are suddenly so many ants in my house.  Why?  There is either a hidden picnic or at perhaps a stashed jar of jelly around here somewhere.  They are big and black and not very smart.  They seem to like my desk, and every time I'm sitting here at least one scuttles across my line of vision, and for some reason all of my typical humanist generous-to-all-small-creatures, gather-them-up-to-set-them-free instincts fly out the window and I want to crush their little bodies with a tissue and feel that horrible-yet-satisfying click.

Business-wise, we have snow.  Lots and lots of snow, and no one gives a damn.  Clearly, we are not the only ones who have given up on this Winter, the city-folk couldn't care less that we have oodles of it.  They are staying put and waiting for Spring.  So, all the digging and shoveling and paying for expensive plow-jobs is sort of squandered on our three customers this weekend, but whatever.  We're over wishing this season to be more cooperative, our eyes are just calmly trained on the magnolia buds outside, watching them plump and waiting for the glorious day that they emerge.

Poopies-wise, we have a little comedian on our hands.  He's discovered the joy of making us laugh, and will do anything, from asking for cookies for breakfast, to dramatic pratfalls, to straight-on tickling to make it happen.  He is totally hilarious, if not a bit weird, which we see as a good thing entirely.  When he's not vying for laughs, he's telling endless tales of what happened earlier in the day or week, which mostly consists of a scattering of words he knows filled in "um"s plus his typical gibberish, with adorable sighs, hand-clasps and pauses while he looks diagonally at the ceiling and thinks of the next silly bit.   He is also sleeping the whole night in his crib lately, which is sweet and kind thing for him to finally do.  I had really sort of had it with having to retrieve a 30-pound leech at 3 am every morning.

Baby-wise, I'm nearly 26 weeks along now, feeling good, feeling fine, if not a tad incapable of imagining what a little baby is going to do to our lives.  I recall feeling this way before Poopies' arrival, but this is a totally different game.  The Pooper is going to be sad.  And mad.  And I hate doing that to my favorite little person.  What really gets me is that I imagine that every bit that I dote on the baby and love her will be upsetting and resented by him.  It was so easy to love him, it was free and natural and there was no competition or bad feelings associated.  And I wish it could be the same this time around.  I know he will come around eventually, but initially he will hate it I'm sure, and he is such a loving, cuddly little boy I really hate to sully his feelings for me.

Plus, there is the sleeping situation, which I've finally accepted we will just have to feel out once the time comes.  I assume we will start with the baby in the bed, joined immediately by Poopies I'm sure, and will suffer through a few weeks or possibly months of that madness before we throw our couch out the window, moving our bed into the living room, thereby surrendering all hope of ever receiving visitors to our home, and giving up our room to "the kids."  We are still planning on starting a renovation that will add a second floor about a year from now, but the logistics of this between financing, town hall and questionable foundations is fairly defeating, I have to say.  Plus, doing all that work and still having seven-foot-ceilings on the first floor seems like an exercise in futility.

So, I've worked my way into a bit of a depressing endnote here, huh.  Well, we'll just end with a cute photo of our wooly winter boy, and call it a day:

When's Spring?

It's been a sad couple of days. 

The night before last, after a somewhat disappointing weekend business-wise, we just needed to get out of the house.  So, despite quickly-waning available funds and business to replace such extravagant outings, we decided to head into Woodstock for dinner.  I should preface this with that I had been a bit down that day, just blue for no real reason, let's blame the pregnancy hormones, which isn't anyone's fault but happens to bother some, although it frankly cannot be considered a news flash to anyone here that I can be moody at times.  Anyway.  Somehow during the course of dinner the Cap'n and I started to say increasingly acidic things to each other and it ended up being a "you make me feel ____" sort of conversation.  And I started crying.  And god, I LOATHE public crying.  But the tears wouldn't, couldn't stop, even when I really wanted them to, they kept coming all night, all through dinner, even after we returned home to sleep in separate rooms, so that I woke up the next morning all puffy and drained.  I do believe it must have been the hormones.

So, the next day we pretended all was well, and with only a minor speed bump in transit, had a really nice day touring one of the Vanderbilt mansions.  A pleasant diversion!  Good architecture and lavish furnishings really can put one in a better mood.

Then I returned home to an email from a college friend, a former roommate of mine whose wife was just a couple of weeks behind me in her pregnancy.  The subject line:  "A sad update..." made my heart skip a beat.  They lost their baby at 18 weeks, a little boy.   Something about problems with the placenta and the fluid.  I can only assume that they had to go through a delivery and everything.  I am just sick about it.  They've had more than their fair share lately with disease and death and it's just not fair. I don't know how you recover from something like that.  I can't imagine it.  Something about getting past the 12th week makes you feel like the pregnancy is iron-clad or something, and this was a painful reminder that nothing is guaranteed, not ever, and that I shouldn't take this baby's progress for granted.   Every kick and swish since then has been an anticipated affirmation.