Hotel Horror: Free Breakfast Does Not Trump A Hairy Shower

hotel

If you’ve been following along (And I know you have been because our life has been a wreck lately and you all have gaper delay.) the past few months have been a special brand of relocation hell. The day school ended we loaded up and began the process of moving all of our worldly possessions from suburban Indianapolis to the Boston area, 957 miles away.

Having made it through the gruesome process of loading the moving van (read all about it here if you missed it) it was time to pack up the Hyundai like the Klampets heading to Beverly Hills.

957 miles in a car with two children, one spouse and a cat, provide a gal with lots of time to ponder. It’s not a journey I’d recommend so to save you the anguish, here are a few things I learned during those 957 miles:

  • Fitted with a ridiculously ugly car topper procured from a retiree on Craig’s List, one can fit an obscene amount of crap into a 10-year-old Santa Fe, including a box of things the packers missed and an Instant Pot in case one wants to cook in a hotel. (What was I thinking? Who even does this?)
  • Regardless of how much one researches about the best way to travel with a domesticated feline, if said feline decides he will be free-range on an inter-state journey, he will be free-range.
  • A Turk with road rage can intimidate even a psychotic truck driver in an 18- wheeler. (While simultaneously terrifying all passengers in the car to tears.)
  • When near the Canadian border, one can pick up a radio station broadcasting completely in Turkish. (Though full disclosure, it did stir up a little PTSD from my years in Turkey.)

And most importantly,

  • If a relocation agent says, “I’ve not seen the property but it checks all the requirements,” proceed with caution.

After two days of driving we arrived at our temporary housing ready for much deserved sleep. From the peeling paint and cigarette butts ushering us to the door like a trashy Vegas wedding aisle, we knew doom was looming. Relocations with the Turk’s company never take the discount route so the outward appearance of the dwelling was a big ‘ol red flag.

This “extended stay suite” might have better been labeled a “prolonged misfortune hell-hole.” Though the Turk became hostile the second the door swung open, exhaustion allowed me to look past the ceiling light hanging by a frayed wire, burned foil lining the stove burners with charred food remnants still in tact and the fist-sized hole in the “sitting room” where a television likely once hung. I was displeased but willing to give it a shot…until…I found a colossal pube in the in the shower before we even put our bags down.

Now I can risk death by electrocution by no-longer recessed, recessed lighting. I can put up a solid battle against salmonella on a dirty cook top, but showering with a stray pube from a freakin’ interloper? Ah hells no.

Immediately the Turk had me on the phone trying to sweet talk the good woman at a nearby Hampton into saving our pube-fearing souls. Alas, they were booked up but upon hearing my tale of woe (and of course, I included the ownerless pube for effect) she was able to book us early the next day in a “family suite.” Just what a “family suite” consisted of was yet to be determined and our skepticism was running high but we had no choice. We slept with one eye open, avoided the shower and awaited our new accommodations.

The Hampton family suite was exactly what we needed, a kitchenette with a microwave, mini-fridge and sink, 2 sleeping areas and as requested by Nugget, a hot tub (and pool)one floor away. (No one’s sure why Nugget loves a hot tub since he never gets in but Nugget is an anomaly.) Upon arrival I conducted an immediate ‘pube check’ and after coming up empty I gave the all clear for the team to unpack and commence wrecking havoc on our new temporary home.

We arrived in our new digs on Monday and our truck was expected to arrive Friday. After signing our lives away during the closing mid-week, I threw myself into the horrific process of sanitizing a home following ownership by some less-than-tidy dog owners. (FYI – trying to clean carpet that reeks of dog only makes it more oderifirus than one might imagine. Thankfully, 1-800-EMPIRE really does have next-day service.) I cleaned dog hair from every surface including the depths of the freezer but thankfully, no pubes.

Certain our truck was arriving on time, I strong-armed the Turk into painting the entire upstairs, inclusive of the rainbow stripes in Number One’s bedroom. (I’m love me the Pride flag in every form but for some reason my 10 year-old son doesn’t share my feeling. What evs kid.) I love my family dearly but at that point we were 6 days into sharing a hotel room and the depths of my love were being significantly tested. I was going to be ready when that moving van pulled in. 

Friday came and went with no word from the moving company. When Saturday turned out the same, I did the walk of shame to the stoner who took the weekend shift at our hotel’s front desk.

“Yeah, I’m going to need to extend our stay…again.”

“Whoa. No truck?”

“Nope.”

“Harsh yo. Any word?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll extend you until Tuesday. Positive vibes right?”

I made my best attempt at a smile for the stoner before schlepping 2 kids to the pool alone for the 7th time because the Turk has cootie fears regarding public pools. The man is a water engineer so he probably knows things but still… he sucks.

When Sunday passed with no attempt to schedule an arrival time from the moving company I began to break. Wine, chocolate and even those little happy pills my doctor gave me for the move were no longer quelling the hostility welling within. No woman deserves to share one room with her entire family for 8 days with no end in sight. Never.

Stress insomnia took over as I listened to 3 snoring Turks. I fumed as I pulled out a new book I’d purchased weeks prior. It was the tale of a mother gone mad, who had thrown her kids from a bridge before plotting to kill her husband. I made it through one chapter before determining this tome might best be left for later.

At breakfast, two hours later, the message finally came. Our moving van had arrived. However, it was stuck at the bottom of our narrow, winding and tree-lined driveway. It wasn’t ideal but at least I was getting sprung from hotel hell before I threw anybody off the bridge to Cape Cod. Thanks Universe. I look a little chunky in prison orange.

 

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Load ‘Em Up And Move ‘Em Out

packing and moving

The email from our relocation agent concluded, “We realize that relocations can be difficult so we are here to make the transition as seamless and comfortable as possible for you and all members of your family.” Were this my first relocation rodeo, I might have bought this line, but I’ve done the relocation jam a few times so in response to the email all I could think was, “bitch please.”

From past experience, (And I’ve had way too much experience with moves.) I know that the load out is the worst. When you have control issues, like myself, it’s even worse. It might not be bamboo under your fingernails while being held hostage in a goat crate bad, but it feels about like that.

Load out week is when the proverbial crap hits the turbo fan. Packers show up and progress at a pace that illustrates utter disdain for any form of organization you may have attempted to put into place. Bubble wrap and packing tape flow like confetti at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Boxes form a modern art version of Mt. Rushmore in your garage and every ounce of hostility or contempt you’ve suppressed towards your spouse for the entirety of your union flows to the surface like the damn Mississippi. It’s an ugly, ugly time.

Having traversed this path before, I knew what was coming. However, I tried to block  out the horrors when I realized this particulair move out week would coincide with my end of the school year. The same week I would be wrapping up a job, finishing grades, preparing to close on a house, finishing underwriting on a new house and dealing with my own children who were done with their educational pursuits and ready to wreck summertime havoc, total strangers would be shoving my earthy possessions into a semi without my watchful eye. Conversely the children I teach were likewise ready to be done for the summer, acting like rabid monkeys while partaking in a final week full of exhaustive “special” activities. I was on the precipice of mayhem.

This timing meant there was no choice but to turn over the reins to the Turk but the mere thought of such an action gave me palpitations. In an attempt to maintain a sembelance of control, I woke at 4:00am daily to organize the packing and leave psycho post-it notes on virtually everything. “Pack!”  “Don’t Pack!”  “Pack Carefully!” (PS – had I encountered my own post-its, I’d have immediately hated me.)  I laid out all this psychosis before going to work at 7:00 where I did thinks like standing in a stream with a bunch of middle schoolers in 90 degree heat or leading group hikes without mentioning the giant snake that crossed the trail before us.

Initially I’d crafted a much more sensible plan. I was going to finish teaching Friday, have the packers on Saturday, load the truck on Sunday and leave Monday allowing me to orchestrate every moment without relying on the Turk. Perfection. But then the moving company changed their mind and the crap-tastic moving maelstrom began.

The packers arrived mid-week while I was at work rather than Saturday as was scheduled in my master plan. They then informed us the moving van would arrive on Friday rather than Monday shooting my plan completely to hell. While the Turk was awed by the two heavily tattooed and equally heavily muscled women packing our house, I was left void of all control and near death by anxiety. When I arrived home from work to the disarray, I’m pretty sure the look of terror in our cat Cengiz’s eyes was the same one reflected in mine. I harkened back to the earlier email, “…we are here to make the transition as seamless and comfortable as possible for you and all members of your family.” In that moment, even the cat was thinking, “Bitch please.”

The night before the truck was to load, I had to go to graduation to say my final, tearful goodbyes to my school babies. I tucked my mini-Turks safely away at grandma’s and left the Turk with some important tasks at the house in lieu of child rearing.

1 – Get Cengiz to what the The Turk likes to call, “The Cat Hotel” (aka boarding) to avoid traumatizing the surly cat any further.

2 – Clean the refrigerator. (Including scrubbing Nugget goo off the doors.)

3 – Clean so I don’t have to clean the entire house before we roll out.

If you’re a regular reader, (and I’m sure you are…) you know how the Turk responds to to-do lists. I rushed home from grandma’s the next morning before work only to be met at the door by Cengiz.

“Why is the cat still here?” I asked.

“He did not want to go.”

“You’re kidding me right? How do you know this?”

“He tell me.”

“You speak cat now?”

“Yes. Turks are very connected to animals.”

I tried to do one of those deep breathing techniques we teach the kids at school to keep them from having a meltdown. It worked for like two seconds until I opened the fridge.

“What the hell? Why is this still full and gross?”

“I can do it.”

“But the whole point was you stayed here to do it last night.”

“Well I started with the beer fridge. I got that done though.”

“You cleaned out the beer fridge? Let me guess, by drinking it clean?”

“Yes. How else I clean it?”

Before I could express my profanity laden frustration rant, a massive semi pulled into our little segement of suburbia. It was gameday and we were painfully unprepared.

I had less than an hour before I needed to be at work and my hostility and anxiety were in overdrive.

I began throwing orders at the Turk, “Get the cat in the carrier. I’ll take him to the Cat Hotel.” before heading off to instill adequate fear into the moving crew. I needed to insure supreme care and caution would be exercised in my absence. (I may be 5’4 and squishy but in my mind I’m like 6’7” and intimidating as hell.) Five minutes later I returned to find the cat holed-up under a futon with the Turk on his knees pleading.

“Come out Cengiz. It be ok. You will love the Cat Hotel. You meet friends. It be fun. I promise.”

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“See? He not want to go.”

“It doesn’t matter! Get the cat in the carrier. I have to go.”

I watched the Turk click, snap, use baby talk and even use Turkish sweet nothings but Cengiz wasn’t coming out. I’m all for letting people pursue their own methodology but sometimes there is no time for such madness when my method is proven.

I snapped to Number One Son waiting downstairs who magically appeared with his brother, both clutching the cat carrier. Stepping over the Turk, I clutched the futon and She-Hulked that badboy across the room, grabbed Cengiz by his neck scruff and put him in the carrier. Done.

The Turk put him in the car all the while cooing and reassuring the cat.

The entire load-out would progress in a similar fashion. The Turk was left in charge but I’m sure you know who had to finish the job with a hostile cleaning in 99% humidity at the end of the process. But hey, at least the beer fridge was clean.

Somehow, it all got loaded, the house got cleaned and Cengiz treated his first stay at a Cat Hotel like a spa visit. Most importantly, I will not disclose how much wine it took to get me through phase one.

 

Khat-ing Around

For years I’ve been the Antonin Scalia on all judgements in the family pet battle.

Can we get a dog? No. Too much work.

Can we get a cat? No. Too bitchy.

Hamster? No. Too close to a mouse.

Guinea pig? No. Too close to a rat.

Bird? No. Too annoying.

Fish? Ok I did say yes here but after five toilet bowl funerals, many tears, an aquarium leak and a rehoming mission that resulted in the Turk driving around Indy with a fish in a Ziploc begging someone to take him, my no fish stance is firm.

About three Christmases ago I thought I might have won the battle when I got to match the Midge’s request for a dog with, “No, but I can give you a brother.” That worked for like a day.

A few months ago the Turk decided that the best reward to the entire family – myself, the caretaker, obviously excluded- for making it though everything with the Nugget’s health, was to get a family dog. My reply was a predictable, “Aw hells no.”

Nothing against man’s best friend but I’m not a dog gal. Ok, I’m not a pet gal at all. I hate sharing my space with something that cannot talk back to me (Yes, I realize I do that with the Nugget but he signs so that point is moot.) I hate fur all over. I hate that nasty ass smell that comes with pets; you know the one that is a combination of pee and pet food. Most of all, I hate stray turds. I have a potty training two-year-old; my world has enough stray turds.

But ten years with this Turk and I know that a hard “no” would only drive him and the risk of him turning up one day with a Fido surprise was solid, so I countered with the feline card. “Maybe we should get a starter pet. You know, one that can pet-sit itself, is relatively silent and poops in a contained space. Let’s get a cat.” I barely believed it was my own voice uttering those words but once they were out I had to stand by them.

“No. I had cat in Turkey. Boncuk. (The Turk pet name equivalent of Fido) Boncuk was asshole. All cats are assholes. I will not live with another asshole cat.”

In Turkey cats are everywhere. They’re like furry, surly little street gangs. As for their coexistence with society, Turks fall into one of two camps – they either adore them and feed them from their front doors or they hate them and kick them on the down low. The Turk was raised by one from each camp- his mother adored the cat but his father despised it. No wonder Boncuk was an asshole.

“You know not all cats are like the one you had in Turkey in 1979. Right?”

“No. They are all the same. Assholes.”

“Fine. But there will be no dog in this house until every single person in this home uses a toilet on the reg.” (Though we started with a bang, my stubborn Nugget only uses the toilet when the spirit moves him or if we’re in a public restroom with an exciting toilet. I see this trend continuing for the long haul.)

I’d put my foot down but the boys, led by their captain, The Turk, continued to dog shop at every chance. But one magical day when the Nugget and Turk were out on the town they stumbled across a cat up for adoption. The Turk witnessed first hand the weirdo love the Nugget has for felines and being a total sucker for anything Nugget, he was swayed.

Fast forward to last weekend and he confessed that he’d been test driving cats for weeks and he’d finally found our perfect match. We were set to pick it up in the morning. I steeled myself and agreed under the premise that I get to issue the cat’s moniker. (My family members are known for sucking at pet naming and I wasn’t about to spend the next 20 years with a cat named Cat or, God forbid, another Boncuk.)

Unlike when I named my children and was tasked with finding a name that was Turkish for citizenship reasons but pronounceable in English (PS- your options are pretty freaking limited. There are seriously many online groups filled with people struggling with just this half-breed naming quandary.) my options were wide open.

Should I name it J.J. Walker so I could yell “Dyn-o-Mite!” whenever I called him? What about George Jefferson (Wheezy if a girl) so I could sing “Movin’ on up” when he ran the stairs? Seventies TV is my usual go-to, (I once had a cow named Magnum PI) but I decided to go classic. Cleo-cat-ra, Miss Cleo (like the 80’s fortune teller) for a girl and Gengis Khat for a boy. Cengis (pronounced Jengis) is a common Turk name so we comboed the English/Turk versions so he’d match the kids’ weird names.

Gengis Khat has been an Ozemet for four days now and he’s blended right in. He sleeps with the Nugget, cuddles with the Turk, plays with the Midge and screeches at me when his food bowl is empty. I’m pretty sure he’s Turkish.

The biggest holdout seems to be the one with the instantaneous attachment. The Turk has been away on business all week but texted to see how the new addition was getting on.

-How is my boy?

-Good. He just got home from school.

-No the other one.

-Good. He just got up from his nap.

-No. The other one.

-Gengis??? Are you seriously asking about the cat over your kids?

-Yes. Does he miss me? Scratch him behind the ear for me.

(Eye rolls as I plunk more money into our children’s therapy funds.)

Welcome to the nuthouse Gengis Khat. Things don’t  make a lot of sense here but you’ll get the hang of it soon.

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