Thursday, January 19, 2006

Where Was I?

When last we left the intrepid travelers.....they were feeling the need for a mind-altering substance to bear the unbearable reality of the Francis Scott Key. We had all the ingredients for seabreezes but needed ice. R. grabbed the ice bucket and made an exhaustive search of the grounds until she gave up and went to see Norman again. “Ice machine’s down by the pool.” She goes all the way back there and is holding the bucket for an eternity….no ice. Back to Norman World. “Did you put the quarter in, (you stupid sonafabitch)." By now, R is mentally composing her letter to the FSK corporate headquarters that we have to PAY for freaking ice.

R mixed the cocktails and we had snacks. P said for us to go to dinner because she felt so sick and wanted to veg in front of the TV. That plan went out the window because the TV went off every 10 minutes and she had to turn it back on. Probably haunted.

R and I drove 73 bajillion miles until we saw our first restaurant and used the “any port in a storm” rule. R got P some crackers and teas and we were hanging out in her room when the entire room went black and silent. We sat there for a few minutes and finally felt around for the doorway. The entire complex was out. We left the door open because the heat was intense, but the mosquitoes soon found us. R checked her car for a flashlight. Nope. So there we sat in the smelly, pitch black room and visualized being coal miners. R thought she might try getting a candle at the front desk. Oh Norman….

She asked what was going on and he said a transformer blew out across the street because we had plugged in the iron. Not really the reason, but plausible given the accommodations. When she asked if they had any candles or flashlights, he said, and I paraphrase “You stupid sonafabitch, do you know where you are? This is the Francis Scott Key so go get your own stuff”

She did. She took a candle off a table in their restaurant and brought it back to us in the cave and we sat around that little table and held a séance. We renamed the place the Stevie Wonder Motorlodge and tried not to bump into things for the rest of the night.

Since we had to go to golf school in the morning, as you may all be wondering by now why we didn’t just freaking leave, we tried to set up wake up calls (I know, we are really, really slow learners) but the automated system was down. So we went to see Norman and asked if he could call our room at 6 and he said, “You SSOAB, call the automated system” Us, “We did that and it’s not working” and he said, “You SSOAB, this is the FSK, stay up all night if you want to get up on time.”

So R tries in the complete darkness to set the room alarm clock. We go to sleep and I am awakened by R all showered and towel-headed saying, “Ok, get up, it’s just about 6.” And I said “Really?? It’s so dark.” So I get in the shower and R calls P to wake her and to make this long story longer, R mistakenly set the alarm for 4:30 because she couldn’t read her wrist watch correctly in the dark. Well, so we were early. We stumbled into Layton’s Family Restaurant which spirited a giant white sprinkled donut above its sign. The waitress, also known as Happiness Incorporated made us feel as if the family in “family restaurant” was the Manson Family. We had tea that wasn’t tea, toast that wasn’t toast and service that wasn’t with a smile.

We headed out to Deer Run Golf Course to meet our golf instructor. We got there and found out we were the only students there for the 3 days, as everyone else had cancelled because of the hurricane. And the weather was beautiful. We felt our luck was changing…we were going to have our instructor all to ourselves.


To be continued.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

A Bedtime Story

OK, OK. Been told I never update my posts and since I have not done one since my return to freezing New Jersey, let's just say, I'm blue. I have had to honor some consulting commitments that bring to mind, "What the hell was I thinking when I agreed last year to do them? January seemed so far away". And....and....the dreaded painters are coming. Now, I don't have the greatest history with contractors, so I am prepared to gather a wealth of information for the next blog. However, I came across an account of a trip with friends to golf school and I will put a few installments here.

America's Favorite Golf School (AFGS) is located in Ocean City, MD. One week before our departure, a co-worker, Joe Cleric, walked into my office and said, "Aren't you going to OC this weekend?" "Yes" I nodded brightly. "Hurricane Isabel is supposed to make a direct hit there right about then" I called one of our group and we laughed and said, "Shoot, it's only a category five". This was way before Katrina, so what did we know? Storm tracker central was officially established with P's husband and myself simultaneously sending emails from the National Weather Service about the "cane". Several conference calls were held with much hand-wringing alternating with laughter about the Francis Scott Key motel losing its roof and being renamed, 'The Francis'.

The joint chiefs made the decision that we were green lighted to go. All three of us were attired in red T-shirts supplied by R emblazoned with "Road Trip" on the front. At one of the toll booths, R asked the collector, "Do you like our shirts?' He yawned.

We arrive at the FSK motel, driving down a path to a plantation-like building, park, get out and spot a giant, white sculpture of a horse laying on its side in the bushes by the front stairs. This is some of the carnage of Isabel, but we see it as a bad omen: A dead horse you have to almost step over to get into the building. The motel clerk, Norman (honest) acknowledged our presence after several small eternities. P had a nasty cold and asked for her own room. This brain-crushing task had to be handed over to a superior, one who had a different shirt. (And who am I to talk with our shirts?). Norman's evil twin was willing to lend a hand as long as we completely took over her job and made all the arrangements. R got on the phone with AFGS (it was a package) and made it happen. Now, Norman’s evil twin begins the process, the long, tedious process, of checking into the Francis Scott Key motel. Finally, Norman himself holds out two keys and says, “That’ll be $20 please.” “For what????”
“For the key deposit, you stupid sonafabitch.”

Well, he didn’t actually say that last part, but he certainly was saying it with his one functioning eye.

We left the office and found ourselves in the great state of Pennsylvania section of the motel. So we three razor sharp observers soon realize that our rooms are located on the second level of a no-elevator building. Picture 3 red shirts holding 3 huge duffels and 3 bags of clubs staring at that flight of stairs like the summit of Kilimanjaro.

R just gets in the van and drives to the front office and returns with different room keys and an iron (don’t ask). As we opened the door to the first room, we were hit by a stench that made downtown Calcutta smell fragrant. Apparently, the carpet really got soaked from the hurricane. We quickly turned on the AC as P gasped for air from her already compromised respiratory system. R and I found a toilet that was installed by Francis Scott Key himself during his apprenticeship with Phineas Plumbing after his musical career did not pan out.

In our room, we decided that we would not venture to sit, let alone sleep, on the pull out couch. We feared opening it would allow subterranean life forms to scurry out. The bed springs and mattresses were stained from the remnants of many a crime scene. The bedspreads were made of a fabric that seemed to be moving. I remarked, “This is where people go to commit suicide.” I later determined it may have not been the best choice because there were no plastic laundry bags to suffocate yourself, no water pressure to drown yourself, and, as the hotel guest we observed at the front desk could attest as she tried to get shaving supplies for her husband, no razor blades to slit your throat.

Apparently, though, one lucky customer figured out how to do it and his remains were buried at “Pop Pop’s Memory Playground”, a macabre plot of land adjacent to the pool that contained a swing set, sliding pond and a $2 bunch of plastic flowers. During our entire stay at the FSK, we did not see one single child in there, all too traumatized to think of their toes brushing back and forth over Pop Pop’s mortal remains.

More tomorrow, or later....I have to get coffee for the painters who turned out to be quite nice and competent. This is a bedtime story.

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Anyone can have a plan until you get punched in the mouth

Words to live by from Mike Tyson. Quotes. My head has been jerked around by quite a few since I've been down here in the Sunshine State. A favorite from the Onion: "Plan to straighten out entire life during weeklong vacation yields mixed reviews"

Just had dinner with the parental units. My father can find anything at all to complain about, but tonight, he really had to go far. The meal was outstanding, he was treated to dinner, he was with his family, but oh....oh, wait. "How was the soup, Dad?" "Annoying." Annoying???? Honestly, just because the cheese was a bit stringy. Good lord. As my brother says, "I've heard 'salty', 'cold' and 'not enough clams' but 'annoying'?"

We caught the premiere of Dancing with the Semi-Stars, although you really have to put Jerry Rice in the super star category and he did not disappoint. As one of the judges said, "I loved your cucarachas." Me too.

V. and I went to see "Memoirs of a Geisha" as a pallette cleanser after "Munich" which we saw with the entire population of Boca Raton. About Geisha, V and I read and loved the book and it was quite faithful and beautiful, but the lead, although stunning, could not act her way through a shogi screen. As for "Munich", we were all in agreement that Spielberg needs to find the edit button. He must be too big for people to tell him how overly long and indulgent some of his "dramatic crap" gets. I bet all the Hollywood suckups tell him how "powerful" those scenes are. Phooey. Stick to what you do best, surprising us with the good timing segments.

What else, what else? Well, my visit is quickly drawing to a close and I will miss the nice, cozy routine here hanging with J and V and catching occasional glimpses of my beautiful nephews. And the cat, Shmushie. I am a notorious cat-hater, never understanding why anyone would have them as pets. The cats that belong to my friends have grudingly grown on me as I spend time with them, but I have to say that Shmushie has won my heart. She is the prettiest cat I have ever seen, she does not make cat noises, she makes dog noises, and she smells like no other animal I've ever smelled. A great smell. The best is to watch her with my nephew, whom she adores. He walks around with her on his shoulder and she allows him the most liberties of anyone. He can kiss her for long periods of time without her moving, and throw her in the air, and she trusts him completely. I guess she knows he was the one that found her as a kitten wandering around during a hurricane, and he took her in. The rest of the family came around soon.

Non-sequitor endquote from the Onion: "Canada man acts like he is not cold"