ProudMary

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.

On the Bright Side

I think I could go on for about 15 pages about the various frustrations, irritations and veiled insults surrounding the in-law visit, but I'm going to take the high road and just say that it was about ten times better than the last visit, and about half as short.  And it's over.  That's all I could really ask for, and I'm just so glad for that last part.  It was nice having them here for the holidays, it made that part feel special, and they certainly adore Poopies about as much as we do, but I'm really happy to have my little family back.  I like them a lot and having them commandeered for more than a day or two frankly starts to piss me off. 

Also, at what point are your elders no longer any wiser, but just older?  I think we're about there.  If only they knew.

My post-vertigo second trimester surge of energy seems to already be over.  I'm going to chalk it up to the holidays and my new ailing lower back, but I was really hoping to be of more help at this point.  For some reason, I guess I thought I'd be able to do as much as before.  The first time around, I still held my job, commuted to and fro, even was still working out a bit at this point.  But now, two years older, and with much more physical duties at hand, I'm totally dragging.  The Cap'n is unfortunately under a similar delusion, and is visibly disappointed when I tell him that I need a rest, or that I'm frankly done for the day and he needs to take over.  As always, he's under the very flawed impression that I am superwoman and can do anything he can.  I love that he thinks me so capable, but a little help and chivalry would be nice too.

So Sorry, So What

The first thought I had after I learned I was pregnant last week was: "christ, do we have a deathwish for constant chaos in our lives, or what?" 

But the very second was:  "hmmmm, could pregnancy possibly be considered a pre-existing condition when applying for health insurance?  NO, it's not like cancer or something!  I mean sure, it means a definite payout in 9 months, but I'm sure they make some allowance for pregnant mothers.  I may have to be a member for a few years, but they wouldn't force pregnant women give birth in their bathtubs.  I mean, that would be particularly cruel!  Even for insurance companies.  I'm sure it will be fine."

Well, it really, definitely, so very isn't fine.  If you get pregnant without health insurance, you're screwed and no one cares.  I even went so far as to call up an insurance company anonymously and ask them at what point they would determine pregnancy:  from the date of diagnosis or would they be getting all crafty and calculating the date of conception from the date of delivery?  Because if I were an insurance company trying to get out of paying for something, I hate to say I'd do the latter.  They wouldn't even give me an answer.  I would have to become a member, make the claim and cross my fingers.  Bastards.  I mean, if you're going to destroy the happiness and sense of wellbeing of my pregnancy, don't be fucking coy about it.  Just tell me that I'm screwed and then we can all move on.

My only defense is that I thought I could get on Poopies' state-offered plan because there is a "Pregnant?" box next to where I put my name on the application.  Don't ask me why I thought this was proof positive that they would cover me, but apparently it was enough to make me relax and enjoy myself.

Finally, I got the brilliant idea of calling a midwife's office and ask what the hell they do when this happens, because I couldn't possibly be the only one to have found herself in this unhappy position, unless other women are from a far heartier stock than I, and don't mind going through their pregnancies with nary a test and just a good squat in a field when the time comes.

The midwife was clueless about the insurance question, but simply asked "Why don't you just get on Medicaid?"  Because Medicaid is for the homeless and elderly, I thought.  Well, actually, the homeless, elderly and the uninsured pregnant, because that's the single option I have, and I'm happy to have it.  I'm just amazed that someone in the state government cleared their heads of the red tape long enough to realize that pregnant women were being left out in the fields and made an allowance.  In fact, if you're proven to be pregnant, there's not much you can do to not get accepted into Medicaid in New York State.  And it's free!  And it will cover me for two months after too! 

This was the first time in my life that I found myself without, and yet very much needing, healthcare.  And I didn't like the idea that I wanted what I couldn't have, even though I'd had it before and I knew I damed well deserved to have it again.  No one should be denied healthcare.  Ever.  It's one of those essential human rights, it seems.  To try to stay as well as possible, and to get help if you need it.

Anyway, I'm covered, for now.  And that's enough.  For now.

Up next:  As the family grows, so must the house, and the Cap'n's imagination.

Damned Mop

Our regularly scheduled programming has been interrupted by our heroine taking a header off the porch steps and wickedly twisting her ankle, causing her to writhe pathetically in spilt mop water for a few minutes, and then hobble home to elicit sympathy and ice packs from her trusty Cap'n. 

You know how when you lose your balance, you usually have a moment there when you think you might catch yourself and be ok?  There was no moment of hope.  I fell like a damned tree out there.  One minute up and fine, and the next flat on my face.  I honestly didn't know what hit me.  Crazy.

I'd heard that during pregnancy, progesterone makes all your muscles and ligaments all loose and stretchy, which can increase the chances of falls, but at 6 weeks?  Is that even possible? 

I'm in so much pain, and the Cap'n's going to have to pick up the slack for my sorry ass over the next few days.  I hate feeling so worthless.

Sleep tight.

Hold Your Breath

The place is full, but for the last time until December.  How weird it is to go from nonstop people, work, and money to suddenly none of that.  I wish we were looking forward to the time off instead of dreading the lack of funds.  We are woefully unprepared in that department. 

We have this guy staying with us in one of our cottages for about two months, which is out of the ordinary for us, but we like him so much we couldn't resist.  He's trying to extricate himself from LA, which he says is a horrible and soulless place, a thing that I've always suspected despite the fact that I've never set foot in the place.  It seems to be the very definition of superficial.  Have you ever met someone with whom you instantaneously know you could talk for hours and hours and hours?  That's how cool this guy is.   Totally laid back, chill and funny.  He's taking a year off to find a house and write a movie, which, ironically, seems a "very LA" thing to do.

Friends of ours are coming up today, and I'm going to meet them about an hour from here at an orchard to pick apples, go on hayrides and pet some goats with Poopies.  And goats are awesome.  I'm actually really excited for him to meet some real animals.  It seems sort of skewed to show him book after book of various cartoonish representations of animals when I know he has no idea what they actually depict.  I know we all must have dealt with that discrepancy without nary a hiccup, which I find really impressive by the way, but in any event, I'm looking forward to showing him the real deal and see his little face when he hears a real cow go mooooooo.

Pain in the Law

I really have no right to complain about the Cap'n's parents.  They are sweet, generous, loving and caring people.  Poopies loves them, but that may be because they brought him 80 Matchbox cars and do his constant bidding, reading him book after book after book as long as he croons "Beeezzz?" ("please?").  However, even the sweetest and most caring start to get old around the third day, just like all houseguests and fish as they say.  And, they'll be here for eight.

Thank god we own this sort of business and they can stay in a little house 100 feet away.  Any closer and I would undoubtedly hear the unecessarily loud and incessant chatter, which I believe they probably do in their sleep.  My god these people can talk.  I'm amazed that the Cap'n escaped with only a half case of it, though it does tend to flare with exposure to them, which reminds me of a  comet's tail as it gets closer to the sun.  He has no idea why I'm completely stressed and about to pop, which sucks doubly because at the very least I should get some credit for absorbing such a barrage of blistering babble.  I sat at breakfast this morning, trying to toss in a volley of conversation here and there, but really what's the point.  If you can't spit it out in 5 seconds, well, better luck next time.  Even if you get that thought whittled down to the absolute essentials, someone's going to interrupt it with what they predict you'll say next, even though the chances of being right are somewhere between nothing and maybe.  I want to know what the point of this is.  Validation?  Playing the odds?  Proof of telepathy?

You also can't do anything for them.  I haven't cooked for four days.  Which sounds nice, except I was raised to believe that one's success as a host is directly proportional to how much delicious food you serve, and preventing me from doing that makes me feel useless.  I honestly tried to get them a glass of water the other day.  OH NO YOU DON'T, WE DIDN'T COME HERE FOR YOU TO SERVE US.  Water?  Are you kidding me?  OK, BUT JUST ONE GLASS, WE CAN SHARE, WE ALWAYS SHARE, EVEN AT HOME... I got them the damned water, and in two glasses!  How's that for ridiculous, luxorious excess???  Christ.

There's also the thinly veiled criticism that I'm beyond wary of.  It's so subtle to point out all my failings in a shrill midwestern baby voice suposidly aimed at Poopies in your constant quest to narrate every element of his world:.  THAT WAS A BIG POOP IN THAT DIAPER, WASN'T IT, HUH?  HUH?  WHAT'S THIS ON THE CHANGING TABLE, ANOTHER DIAPER FROM EARLIER?  IS IT?  HUGH?  HUH?  WELL, LET'S JUST HELP MOMMY BY PUTTING THAT IN THE DIAPER PAIL, OK?  OK?  OH, THE DIAPER PAIL'S AWFULLY FULL, ISN'T IT?  ISN'T IT?  HUH?  HUH?  MOMMY WILL HAVE TO EMPTY THAT LATER, HUH?  HUH? 

Not that I'm faultless, but I really do start out wanting desperately to please, to have the house spotless and to appear practically perfect in every way, but after the fourth day I no longer care that the toilet has a hair on it and the kitchen needs some care, because my ears hurt and I want to scream.  And that makes me feel defeated and depressed.

Sorry I'm so freaking negative, it's a rant, I know.  Talk to me on Friday.  I'll be better I swear.

Ramble On

On my mind:

The people in cottage 5 were apparently very fond of armpit sausage.  I, and not just because of my vegetarianism, am decidedly not.  And yet, I must find a way to eradicate the olfactory remnants of said sausage.  Suggestions welcome.

Later today we have a guy coming in who stayed with us about a month ago, and was so impressed with the place that he offered to come back and paint a couple of our cottage exteriors for free.  He claims to do it for a living, but, as he is currently on disability, has some free time and wanted to barter for a little vacation here.  It sounds good, but I'm concerned that A) you get what you pay for (free paint job = freedom to put the paint where ever he pleases), and B) if he's on disability why is he able to work, and does this imply that he's generally dishonest or at least willing to take advantage of people and situations, particularly ones that are loose, based on goodwill, and somewhat poorly defined?  We'll see!

On Thursday last week we decided to finally get our futon off the damned floor because we're grownups and graduated from college long ago.  It never occurred to me that we have a damp crawlspace under our house and that the underside of the futon, the very futon upon which we rest for 8-10 hours nightly, for at least a third of our lives, might become a fungal breeding ground.  Makes you feel good about yourself and your place in the world, I'll tell you that.  So, I called up 1800mattres (you can see I left off the last "S" for "sleep," though it used to be for "savings," but I guess they abandoned that motto when they decided to charge $1,000 for a bed) and I had my mattress the very next day!  Seriously, thank god for these people, and thank god for a grown up bed that is at sitting level.  My previous worries about Poopies taking a header off a raised bed have been quelled by his sudden ability to grapple up and down like an agile mountain climber.

Speaking of grappling, four months into our reuniting, the Cap'n and I are still trying to come to terms with everything that's happened over the last year.  It appears it's taking me awhile to thaw.  Which isn't all that surprising if you know how freaking panicked I was for damn near a year, and alone, and sad, and inverted, but is surprising if you knew that I used to be a very warm and loving person.  Anyway, yesterday we hit on a really sad but much-needed low note, and I believe that in the face of the terror of losing everything I love I've begun to defrost.  Bout fucking time.  Can't someone just find the damned reset button?

Yipes! Cripes Gripes

Been awhile since I caught up on the things that piss me off about our guests.  And everyone loves gripey bitch lists.  Note:  I am in a bad mood.

#832 - Sleeping on top of the quilts.  And I'm not just talking about landing on top drunk occasionally, it is a practice among some.  In response, I'm going to put something out there:  although it may be an uncomfortable fact for the general public to realize, motels, hotels and inns of all varieties don't wash the bedspread every time.  We typcially wash ours every two or (tops) three uses, and if I had to guess we're running way ahead of most other places.  Not only is it time-consuming to wash them every time, it's really pretty unnecessary, that is, assuming that people follow the rules of the bed and GET IN.  I suppose the sheet-shunners may be uncomfortable with the concept of sleeping in strange beds, and as the Cap'n said, one would usually rather borrow someone's jeans than their underwear.  So, I get that.  But, I'll say it again:  sheets are always clean; bedspreads, sometimes.  So GET IN.

#833 - Sleeping with their heads on the shams.  Even when folks brave the inside of the beds (sheesh) they still miss this other all-important rule of the bed that so many are ignorant of.  At our place, we provide two sets of pillows: one with a standard pillowcase for resting one's weary head upon, and one that is decoratively placed in a sham that matches the quilts. Cute, right?  Now, referring to #832, you can presume that along with the quilts, the shams are only washed every other time or so, and that if you want to plant your noggin on something clean, you should undoubtedly choose the one with the freakin pillowcase on it.  But no, 75% of the time (to be exact) they use the shams, which then smell like head, and then we have to wash the whole set.  Why not just wash the shams?  Because it's just bad practice, so quit asking.

#834 - Stealing our ice.  Because we don't have a fancy ice machine like the chain motels, we installed a little chest freezer at the end of the motel to hold bags of ice that we purchase for around $2 each.  In the month since we put it in place, can I tell you how many times people from the cottages march up, grab an entire bag of the stuff, and toss it in their cooler for the day?  Like at least eight.  Do we have to put up an irritating sign that makes it clear that the ice is meant for the people in the motel only, and only for their little buckets?  I mean seriously, the convenience store is a mile away, and presumably they went there anyway for whatever they are putting on ice, so just shell out the damn $2 and stop taking advantage of our simulated generosity.

#835 - Extreme punctuality.  If I say that the coffee's ready at 8 am, and if at 8 o'clock and twenty-nine seconds you approach the front door, which still says CLOSED, just assume that the whole morning process took a tad longer on this particular day, and don't start peering in the windows and knocking insistently.  You're right, I said what I said, but don't make me let you in and make awkward conversation until the coffee's ready.  Come back in five minutes and, hey, chill the fuck out.

There's more, lots more, but sometimes the bile runs low and so I'm going to take a break.

Rain rain go away, you're totally screwing with our septic

One of the prize aspects of this property is the septic "system," which seems to have been fashioned a hundred years ago from a tuna can and a lot of wishful thinking, and placed strategically below the furnace room, just so there could never be a damned thing we could do about it without disassembling the other major on-premises system and a large part of our building.

You may have noticed that the Northeast has been rather moist these days, and when the groundwater rises, it also flows into our "system," and the toilets, they stop flushing.  Just on the cusp of one of the biggest holiday weekends.

We had some people stop off last night for a room, and we tried to turn them away.  But they didn't want to get back on the road, and on the understanding that "anything they put in the toilets might just stay there," they stayed the night.  Welcome!  Home Sweet Home!  They have yet to emerge, but hopefully they weren't asphyxiated by their own fumes in the night.

So, we called the guy with the truck and the hose at 5 am this morning, and he promises to come and give us a good pump.

If there's one thing I can say about this business, it's that it will keep us humble.  Oh yes.

Sorely Lacking

Ever just feel cataclysmicly unwilling?  To do anything?  For anyone?  That is my today.  Last night, after a day of shopping (and I hate shopping), then becoming the stupidest woman on earth and locking my keys in the car outside of Target, then waiting for security to come break into my car, then rushing as though we were on fire to Poopie's doctors appointment, where I was, as a result of the stupidity and the rushing, not nearly as prepared as I had hoped to be to present Poopies' lack of speech as not alarming in the least, oh yeah, and also it being the first day of a particularly bountiful and painful period, and because I had to try on swimsuits in all my bloated glory, I donned myself "drunk girl" and told the Cap'n that he had to hold down the fort---business- and Poopies-wise.  It was fun, shunning all responsibility and jumping around like a freak, but I maybe made too good on my moniker and woke up feeling less than sparkly.  In fact, I'm totally freaking grumpy, and my ladyparts still hurt.

Adding to this is that we've had a string of bad customers, not exactly good timing as July 4th is around the corner, and at this moment I feel like each key I hand out will undoubtedly come blasting back in my face like a grenade.  It's particularly upsetting because we've really been working on the place, and yet the complaints and disrespectful slobs are teeming.  It's days like this that I'm not sure how long I can do this.  At some point I will find it impossible to muster the motivation to go clean yet another cottage for the ingrates, it's really just a question of how far off that day is.

And that's it.  You will get no silver lining from me today.  I'm going to sit here on this couch and maybe watch some shitty Saturday movie on TV and see if I can track down and consume every last piece of chocolate in the house.  The Cap'n is off at Lowe's and Poopies is sleeping, so I am free to wallow in my choco-grumpiness without witnesses, which is the way it should be, damnit.