Tim and I decided we needed to escape the crowds and craziness that is the fourth of July in the nations capital, so we hopped a train and headed for the quite solitude...of New York City!
We arrived Friday afternoon, and after a quick bite and a leisurely stroll around (of course, leisurely in NYC means you do a four minute mile or risk getting mowed down and left for road kill on Fifth Avenue), we went back to the hotel to freshen up before dinner.
Wanting to ensure privacy (we learned our lesson in Paris) we hung out the "Do Not Disturb" sign, then locked and chained the only door into the room (we also thought briefly about hiring a bouncer, but decided to keep that option in reserve for the time being).
After a quick shower and change of clothes, I slipped the sign off the door and we started to head out. Halfway out the door though, Tim realized he had forgotten something, so we popped back to get it.
No sooner had the door shut, then there was a knock. "Housekeeping"
Wow. That was fast. What, were they staking out the room, just waiting for the sign to disappear before they jumped in there? Now that is one dedicated staff (or people with too much time on their hands).
"Five minutes," I requested, as Tim and I shuddered in remembrance of our last weekend trip. Maybe a bouncer wasn't such a bad idea after all. Later that night though, when we returned to the room, we decided to risk it and just go with the sign and the double-locked door again. We're crazy like that.
The next morning, still wallowing in the unaccustomed privacy of our room, I turned on the shower and..no water. I turned if off and tried again. Still no water. I felt the panic rising, clawing its way up to the surface. This was not good.
As those close to me know, a shower is near and dear to my heart. Compared to me being denied my morning shower, Anthony Perkins in Psycho looked like a kindly, lovable hotelier mere offering to help Janet Leigh get at that hard to reach spot on her back.
I shouted for Tim, who rushed in hoping to avoid the meltdown he knew from experience was barely being held in check. Like a knight in shining armour (or a man grasping at the last straw), he battled the recalcitrant shower handle. He turned, he twisted, he even shouted and cussed, but the shower stubbornly refused to yield. Finally, he had to admit defeat and call the front desk.
In anticipation of the maintenance guy they promised to send up, I removed the "Do Not Disturb" sign from the door. No sooner had I closed it, then there was a knock. My heart beat faster with pure, unadulterated joy at the speed with which the maintenance guy had responded to our plea for help. With the sign still dangling from my fingers, I pulled open the door.
"Housekeeping," the woman standing there chirped.
Seriously? Did these people camp out in the room next door, just waiting for us to leave? I've seen cats pounce on mice with less speed and determination than the housekeeping staff at that hotel.
"Can you come back later?" I asked, "Our shower is broken, and they are sending someone up to fix it." Why I felt compelled to explain the situation to this woman, I don't know. It isn't like she cared why we were still in the room, she just knew she was going to have to keep our room under surveillance a while longer.
No sooner had I closed the door on her then there was another knock. This time, behind door number one: the maintenance guy! Who suspiciously had only a screw driver. Did he not know he was here on the most important job of his career? Had it not been impressed upon him how vital this shower was? He should have shown up with the Craftsman deluxe tool cabinet, and all he brought was a screwdriver?
But, it seemed he was a miracle worker after all, and after five minutes in the bathroom, I heard the glorious sound of running water. All was right with my world again, and nobody was going to have to die.
I ushered him out the door with many thanks, then once again hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door, and headed into the bathroom where I gleefully turned the shower handle. And no water came out.
The vein in my left temple started to throb. Was this some sort of cruel joke? Did they want me to go all Godzilla on them and raze their hotel? Because I could do it.
Once again, Tim rushed in in response to my distress call and monkeyed around with the handle. And once again, I found myself removing the "Do Not Disturb" sign from the door while he called the front desk and suggested that they send the maintenance guy back up to actually fix the problem this time.
Within minutes, there was a knock on the door. I steeled myself to answer the door calmly, but if it was the housekeeping staff again, I couldn't be responsible for my actions. Thankfully , for them, it was the maintenance guy.
Before I could even open my mouth, he produced two faucet parts explaining how he was sure one or the other of them would fix the problem. So, if he knew he hadn't really fixed the problem the first time, why had he said he did and left? I resisted the urge to flush him and his parts down the toilet.
In short order, he was back out in the room though, admitting that it was a third part he needed, which he didn't have, so he would have to go get it. Okay, that was it, now his death was going to be slow and painful.
Tim held me back while he escaped to get the part. But before he returned, there was to be one final visit from housekeeping, because they hadn't pushed me far enough yet. What was it with those people? Were we the only guests in the hotel, or did we just look exceptionally sloppy? I believe Tim handled that one, since he didn't trust me to be around people at that point.
The third time proved to be the charm, and I did get my shower, but not before I put out the "Do Not Disturb" sign one last time...and double locked the door...and made Tim stand guard.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
...Again
It's true. Machines hate me. Near as I can figure, there must be some sort of networking site they are all hooked into that allows them to trade info on me and figure out how to make my life more difficult.
The latest machine to join forces with all the other evil machines in my life is the self-checkout counter at Home Depot.
The other day, I ran in to pick up three items. Three lousy little items. Naturally, they only had two check-out lanes open, both of which had lines that extended into the next state. Par for the course.
Why they even put in more than two or three lanes, I'll never know, because that's all that are ever open. Do they really think that taunting people who are holding hammers, saws and other assorted lethal tools with closed lanes is the smart thing to do?
Miraculously, the self-checkout lane seemed to be moving at a turtle's pace instead of a snail's, so I got in that line. Faster than you can recite volumes one to six of the Encyclopedia Britannica, I was at one of the machines swiping my first item. Beep. Into the bag it went. Second item. Beep. Also, into the bag. Third item. Beep. Onto the counter it went since the box was too big to bag.
And there is where the big 'ole fly landed smack in the ointment. The payment machine registered the item, but the large screen did not and the voice kept telling me to place the item back on the scanner.
Great. Dueling machines. Now they were no longer content to come after me one at a time. They were tag-teaming me.
I looked around for help from a store employee that did not have a computer chip running them. Several minutes of frantically waving my arms as though I were guiding a 747 in for a landing on aisle four finally attracted the attention of an employee who came over to see what the fuss was about.
"You didn't scan the last item," she explained patiently.
I pointed to the machine which indicated I had. She pointed to the checkout screen which said I hadn't.
Again, I pointed to the machine which said I had. Hey lady, just so you know, I can do this for quite a while before my arm gets tired. But something about the way I was baring my teeth at her must have made her rethink the whole competition thing, and she took out a passkey, scanned it, pushed some buttons, and indicated I should try...again.
There. That was all I wanted. Now was that so hard? I may not have said the words aloud, but she knew what I was thinking.
As she tried to make good on her escape, I scanned the item again, and...once again, it showed up on the payment screen, but not on the checkout screen. Boy, good thing I got help, otherwise I might be here all day. This time, I was less subtle in my request for help. I believe they heard me over in the next county.
Passkey in hand, the same woman came back...again, and repeated the totally useless steps she had already executed and...surprise! They didn't work...again.
Hey, maybe we should repeat the pointing exercises all over again too. They didn't work the first time, but, who knows, maybe twice is the charm.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the self-checkout line now rivaled the line for Space Mountain at Disneyland, and, added bonus, it was all men who were thinking, "Dumb woman. She should have stayed in aisle two where she belongs and leave the technical stuff to the guys."
As they sighed and shifted from one foot to another, I did my best to place the blame where it belonged...on the demon machine.
"What's that?" I bellowed. "It's broken...again?"
Something about the way they rolled their eyes told me they weren't buying it.
"Swipe your card," the woman advised me, clearly at a loss for what to do next.
I knew in my heart of hearts that it wouldn't work, but I humored her anyway and swiped my card.
No reaction from the monster machine, so she swiped her card...again. This time, I actually think I heard satanic laughter coming from the machine.
"It's frozen," she deduced when nothing changed...again.
No. Really? I never would have guessed by the way the screens haven't changed in the last...hmmm...let's see...hour! Now for the million dollar question. Can you unfreeze it or not? She surrendered without even trying to swipe her card again and advised me to try another line.
Another quick glance at the line of men waiting for the self-checkout machines told me to not even suggest just moving to another machine. I think I saw a few of them fashioning nooses and fingering axe blades as though warning me what would happen if I even looked like I was contemplating such a move.
Shooting the devilish machine one last malevolent look, I headed for another line. I was so over the whole self-checkout thing...again.
As if someone knew I was skating on the edge, they suddenly opened another lane and I quickly got into it since it was the shortest one and only wrapped around the building six or seven times.
When I finally got there though, I had to hold my breath that things would go smoothly since I would have to deal with the same woman that hadn't been able to help me with the self-checkout ...again!
The latest machine to join forces with all the other evil machines in my life is the self-checkout counter at Home Depot.
The other day, I ran in to pick up three items. Three lousy little items. Naturally, they only had two check-out lanes open, both of which had lines that extended into the next state. Par for the course.
Why they even put in more than two or three lanes, I'll never know, because that's all that are ever open. Do they really think that taunting people who are holding hammers, saws and other assorted lethal tools with closed lanes is the smart thing to do?
Miraculously, the self-checkout lane seemed to be moving at a turtle's pace instead of a snail's, so I got in that line. Faster than you can recite volumes one to six of the Encyclopedia Britannica, I was at one of the machines swiping my first item. Beep. Into the bag it went. Second item. Beep. Also, into the bag. Third item. Beep. Onto the counter it went since the box was too big to bag.
And there is where the big 'ole fly landed smack in the ointment. The payment machine registered the item, but the large screen did not and the voice kept telling me to place the item back on the scanner.
Great. Dueling machines. Now they were no longer content to come after me one at a time. They were tag-teaming me.
I looked around for help from a store employee that did not have a computer chip running them. Several minutes of frantically waving my arms as though I were guiding a 747 in for a landing on aisle four finally attracted the attention of an employee who came over to see what the fuss was about.
"You didn't scan the last item," she explained patiently.
I pointed to the machine which indicated I had. She pointed to the checkout screen which said I hadn't.
Again, I pointed to the machine which said I had. Hey lady, just so you know, I can do this for quite a while before my arm gets tired. But something about the way I was baring my teeth at her must have made her rethink the whole competition thing, and she took out a passkey, scanned it, pushed some buttons, and indicated I should try...again.
There. That was all I wanted. Now was that so hard? I may not have said the words aloud, but she knew what I was thinking.
As she tried to make good on her escape, I scanned the item again, and...once again, it showed up on the payment screen, but not on the checkout screen. Boy, good thing I got help, otherwise I might be here all day. This time, I was less subtle in my request for help. I believe they heard me over in the next county.
Passkey in hand, the same woman came back...again, and repeated the totally useless steps she had already executed and...surprise! They didn't work...again.
Hey, maybe we should repeat the pointing exercises all over again too. They didn't work the first time, but, who knows, maybe twice is the charm.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the self-checkout line now rivaled the line for Space Mountain at Disneyland, and, added bonus, it was all men who were thinking, "Dumb woman. She should have stayed in aisle two where she belongs and leave the technical stuff to the guys."
As they sighed and shifted from one foot to another, I did my best to place the blame where it belonged...on the demon machine.
"What's that?" I bellowed. "It's broken...again?"
Something about the way they rolled their eyes told me they weren't buying it.
"Swipe your card," the woman advised me, clearly at a loss for what to do next.
I knew in my heart of hearts that it wouldn't work, but I humored her anyway and swiped my card.
No reaction from the monster machine, so she swiped her card...again. This time, I actually think I heard satanic laughter coming from the machine.
"It's frozen," she deduced when nothing changed...again.
No. Really? I never would have guessed by the way the screens haven't changed in the last...hmmm...let's see...hour! Now for the million dollar question. Can you unfreeze it or not? She surrendered without even trying to swipe her card again and advised me to try another line.
Another quick glance at the line of men waiting for the self-checkout machines told me to not even suggest just moving to another machine. I think I saw a few of them fashioning nooses and fingering axe blades as though warning me what would happen if I even looked like I was contemplating such a move.
Shooting the devilish machine one last malevolent look, I headed for another line. I was so over the whole self-checkout thing...again.
As if someone knew I was skating on the edge, they suddenly opened another lane and I quickly got into it since it was the shortest one and only wrapped around the building six or seven times.
When I finally got there though, I had to hold my breath that things would go smoothly since I would have to deal with the same woman that hadn't been able to help me with the self-checkout ...again!
Friday, June 26, 2009
Living the Fairy Tale
I have to tell it. There is part II to the previous story. There was one other time in Ireland that we had trouble with finding a place, although in retrospect, it would have been better for us if it had stayed, er, lost.
Since none of us had much money, we had opted to stay at a lot of small bed and breakfast type hotels. We decided, however, to splurge and treat ourselves to one night in a real, honest-to-goodness castle. We were gonna live the fairy tale. Too bad it turned out to be Shrek instead of Sleeping Beauty.
Our first indication that things were not going to work out for us was when we couldn't find the castle. Once again, there was no real address, but we figured ,"how hard could it be to find?" Biiig castle, tiny little town. It should stand out, right? Nope. Wrong. This place was hidden away better than Brigadoon.
Finally, we did spot a sign with an arrow, indicating that the castle lay over the bridge on the outskirts of town. Ahhh. Directions at last. So over the bridge we went. Five miles later, there was still no castle, and no more signs, so we turned around, trying to figure out where we had gone wrong.
As we approached the bridge again from the opposite direction, we spotted the same sign showing that the castle was over the bridge in this direction.
Excuse me? If both signs were correct, that meant the castle was somewhere...on the bridge?...under the bridge?...hovering over the bridge? Hey, maybe we were staying in Brigadoon after all. Sadly, it took us about four more trips back and forth across the bridge before we were willing to admit that the castle wasn't actually there.
Just as we were about to cry "uncle", Tim spotted a road near the bridge. Or what might be a road. Maybe more of a lane. Or perhaps a path. Whatever. It looked like perhaps someone, at some point had driven what appeared to be a vehicle with wheels this way, and after all, it was Ireland, so we took it.
Twenty minutes later, as we sat in some farmer's field facing a very large, very angry-looking bull who seemed to view our little car as a rival for his cows' affections, we came to the conclusion that perhaps it wasn't really the road to the castle after all. We're smart like that.
Once again, we found ourselves back at the bridge trying to interpret the signage. Eventually, and I appear to have blocked this out of my conscious memory, we did find the castle. Even after all these years, though, I have not been able to block out the actual castle itself, no matter how hard I try.
Glad to be there, we eagerly ascended the grand staircase to our room. Tim and I were on the second floor, while my mom, Pat and Mary Ann were in the turret. (he he he)
As we pushed open our door, we recoiled in horror. Far from the sumptuous decor we expected, it looked like our room had last been updated in the 5o's...the 1850's...by someone who had mistaken it for the local bordello.
Bright orange carpeting (stained, by what I still don't want to know) warred with the red and black flocked wall paper, while an enormous naked, gold cupid chandelier hovered over the bed which was covered by a nasty-looking spread with large gold tassels. The shower curtain was stiff with age and I'm pretty sure the mold was the only thing keeping it from completely falling apart. Ewwwwww.
Were they kidding us? Really? Seriously, where was the hidden camera? We were supposed to sleep here and not have nightmares? I began wishing we had given up looking for the castle when we didn't find it on the bridge.
Turns out they were completely serious about the room though, and the castle was fully booked (apparently, we were not the only suckers, I mean tourists, in town that night). Suddenly, the turret didn't look so bad. Maybe I could hang my hair out the window and somebody from "Maid Brigade" would climb up and rescue me.
With no other choice, we resigned ourselves to our fate for the night, consoling ourselves with the fact that, with all the castle had to offer, we would not even be in the room anyway.
With cheerfully grim determination, we enquired at the front desk about the skeet-shooting offered in their catalogue.
"Oh, shooting? We host a contest once year. Too bad you just missed it, it was last weekend."
Grrr. How about horseback riding?
"Weell, it's not actually here at the castle, but it's really close. Just over in the next village. It's easy to get to."
Yeah, I'll bet. We'll probably only need a map, compass, guide dog, Sherpa and picnic lunch just to get there. Thanks, but I think we'll pass. So what is there to do besides shrieking in horror at the accommodations?
"You could visit the town?"
After weighing our options, which were, um, let's see none, we decided to go into town, gorge ourselves on fish and chips and try and plot a course for our escape the next day back to the comforts of a lovely little motel by the airport.
As hard as it was finding our way to the castle, we wanted to make darn sure we could find our way away from it!
Since none of us had much money, we had opted to stay at a lot of small bed and breakfast type hotels. We decided, however, to splurge and treat ourselves to one night in a real, honest-to-goodness castle. We were gonna live the fairy tale. Too bad it turned out to be Shrek instead of Sleeping Beauty.
Our first indication that things were not going to work out for us was when we couldn't find the castle. Once again, there was no real address, but we figured ,"how hard could it be to find?" Biiig castle, tiny little town. It should stand out, right? Nope. Wrong. This place was hidden away better than Brigadoon.
Finally, we did spot a sign with an arrow, indicating that the castle lay over the bridge on the outskirts of town. Ahhh. Directions at last. So over the bridge we went. Five miles later, there was still no castle, and no more signs, so we turned around, trying to figure out where we had gone wrong.
As we approached the bridge again from the opposite direction, we spotted the same sign showing that the castle was over the bridge in this direction.
Excuse me? If both signs were correct, that meant the castle was somewhere...on the bridge?...under the bridge?...hovering over the bridge? Hey, maybe we were staying in Brigadoon after all. Sadly, it took us about four more trips back and forth across the bridge before we were willing to admit that the castle wasn't actually there.
Just as we were about to cry "uncle", Tim spotted a road near the bridge. Or what might be a road. Maybe more of a lane. Or perhaps a path. Whatever. It looked like perhaps someone, at some point had driven what appeared to be a vehicle with wheels this way, and after all, it was Ireland, so we took it.
Twenty minutes later, as we sat in some farmer's field facing a very large, very angry-looking bull who seemed to view our little car as a rival for his cows' affections, we came to the conclusion that perhaps it wasn't really the road to the castle after all. We're smart like that.
Once again, we found ourselves back at the bridge trying to interpret the signage. Eventually, and I appear to have blocked this out of my conscious memory, we did find the castle. Even after all these years, though, I have not been able to block out the actual castle itself, no matter how hard I try.
Glad to be there, we eagerly ascended the grand staircase to our room. Tim and I were on the second floor, while my mom, Pat and Mary Ann were in the turret. (he he he)
As we pushed open our door, we recoiled in horror. Far from the sumptuous decor we expected, it looked like our room had last been updated in the 5o's...the 1850's...by someone who had mistaken it for the local bordello.
Bright orange carpeting (stained, by what I still don't want to know) warred with the red and black flocked wall paper, while an enormous naked, gold cupid chandelier hovered over the bed which was covered by a nasty-looking spread with large gold tassels. The shower curtain was stiff with age and I'm pretty sure the mold was the only thing keeping it from completely falling apart. Ewwwwww.
Were they kidding us? Really? Seriously, where was the hidden camera? We were supposed to sleep here and not have nightmares? I began wishing we had given up looking for the castle when we didn't find it on the bridge.
Turns out they were completely serious about the room though, and the castle was fully booked (apparently, we were not the only suckers, I mean tourists, in town that night). Suddenly, the turret didn't look so bad. Maybe I could hang my hair out the window and somebody from "Maid Brigade" would climb up and rescue me.
With no other choice, we resigned ourselves to our fate for the night, consoling ourselves with the fact that, with all the castle had to offer, we would not even be in the room anyway.
With cheerfully grim determination, we enquired at the front desk about the skeet-shooting offered in their catalogue.
"Oh, shooting? We host a contest once year. Too bad you just missed it, it was last weekend."
Grrr. How about horseback riding?
"Weell, it's not actually here at the castle, but it's really close. Just over in the next village. It's easy to get to."
Yeah, I'll bet. We'll probably only need a map, compass, guide dog, Sherpa and picnic lunch just to get there. Thanks, but I think we'll pass. So what is there to do besides shrieking in horror at the accommodations?
"You could visit the town?"
After weighing our options, which were, um, let's see none, we decided to go into town, gorge ourselves on fish and chips and try and plot a course for our escape the next day back to the comforts of a lovely little motel by the airport.
As hard as it was finding our way to the castle, we wanted to make darn sure we could find our way away from it!
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