Last night was a little drama-filled. It wasn't supposed to be, mind you. Last night was supposed to be an early-to-bed night, filled with restful sleep such that I could wake up at the sucktastic hour of five and hose off prior to the big non-AIDS-related test.
I went to bed at about 11, roughly an hour later than planned. As it turns out, the bed and the television in a non-fine hotel room have an unusual inverse relationship: the nicer the television, the shittier the bed. I had a very nice television. Of course, I don't watch television. But I do sometimes like to sleep. Last night was just not my night for sleep.
After forming my usual nest of pillows and glaring for a while at the big flat-screen monster watching me from the dresser, I turned off the lights and crawled between the scratchy sheets.
Wait a minute. What's that noise?
I turned on the light. The noise instantly stopped. I turned off the light.
Scratch scratch. Crinkle crinkle.
I turned on the light. The noise stopped.
Cockroaches. Or a mouse. OR RATS.
I was pissed, but determined to sleep. I put on my slippers and turned up my sleep-mate (the noise machine I brought with me in order to drown out the inevitable noise of all my mouth-breathing and television-watching hotel neighbors) and reluctantly crawled back between the scratchy sheets. I examined the sheets and determined that they were manufactured from recycled plastic tie straps.
I turned off the light.
Scratch. Crinkle. Scratch.
I tried to sleep. I failed.
Around 12:30, when I realized that some co-occupant of my hotel room had graciously cleaned up the little bits of popcorn I'd so carelessly left on the floor, I called the front desk. Candy answered. I resisted my immediate impulse to ask, "What are you, some kind of sucker?" because I had serious business with this Candy lady.
In a firm but not-too-bitchy voice, I said, "I think there are cockroaches in my room. Or a mouse." I left out the possibility of rats. Also mountain lions, though they've been spotted in the area.
"What room?" she asked. (As if it mattered.) What was she going to say? "Oh? 107? Yeah, that room is fucking crawling with cockroaches. Have you found the maggots in the bedstand drawer yet?"
I told her my room number, and her response was along the lines of: Huh. No offer of assistance, no half-hearted O-I'm-very-sorry-to-hear-that-can-I-put-you-in-a-different-room-right-away? Just: Huh.
I remained silent. She finally said, "It's probably the wind."
"Does the wind here only start up when you turn the lights off? And does it usually stop when you turn the lights back on? Because where I'm from, it doesn't."
"Well, it's too cold for mice," she assured me.
I related this story to my mother, who, at this point, interjected with, "Yeah, mice migrate. I saw a whole herd of them heading south back in November. They're probably in New Orleans by now."
I tried explaining to Candy that it's not too cold INDOORS for mice, but realized the futility of arguing with this woman, with any woman named after empty calories. Hell, with any woman.
Begrudgingly, Candy offered to put me in the room next door to me. I asked if she thought mice and cockroaches were respectful of the boundaries created by the world's flimsiest walls, and she didn't respond. Knowing I had no real options, I just gave up and tried to go to sleep. I succeeded, for about two hours. I woke to the pitter-pat of little feet, the crinkle of the plastic bag lining the wastepaper basket. Oh, that crazy dakota wind.
Realizing that sleep was simply lost to me, I got up, showered, and called a different hotel, the one that was originally booked up. As proof that not ALL my karma is bad, there had been a couple cancellations, and yes, the gentleman (not named Fudge) at the front desk assured me that he would be happy to reserve a room for me.
I moved all of my things out to my car and then went to the front desk to confront Candy. I didn't recognize her at first, but then realized she looks less like Candy and more like Margarine. Is that how you spell margarine? That looks too much like tangerine. Anyway, Candy looks like she had her name and ate it too. Ate all of it. And then ate the box it came in, just cos.
I explained the situation--that I had called during the night. She interrupted me with, "Well, you never called back. I OFFERED to put you in another room, so it's not my fault you didn't sleep."
I said I wanted to check out, that I'd found a different hotel for my second night. She bitched a little more about how she'd been so accommodating and how I was just a complainy little non-confection-named bitch, and then I left.
Despite a mere two hours of sleep, the exam went well. (I think?)
I checked into the different hotel, parked my car by the entrance, and went to my new hotel room. I stuck the card in the slot. Red flashy light. "It's not that kind of hotel, is it?" I wondered. I tried it again. And again.
When I walked in the entrance by my room, I'd passed the maintenance room, had heard two guys in there talking to each other. So I put my things down and peeked in on them. They both stopped talking.
"So, um, maybe I'm just being retarded about the key card thing, but it doesn't seem to work. Would you be willing to..." Before I'd finished asking my question, they were both out in the hallway, scurrying to figure out where my room was. The guy tried my key for me, and it didn't work. I started to suggest that I just go to the front desk and get a new card, but the dude insisted that I needed a new lock. Before I could protest, he'd run back to the maintenance room and returned with the entire apparatus for the door locking system, and had a cordless screwdriver out and was taking my door apart. I said nothing and went about the task of getting settled in.
Two guys replaced the lock. One guy whistled self-consciously the whole time. When the new lock was in place, they tried my key. It still didn't work. Then they tried their key. It worked.
"I guess you'll have to go to the front desk and get a new key. I'd go get it for you, but for security purposes, we're not supposed to."
So, yeah. Service. Or, at least, service dudes who like to ogle single females in their hotel rooms.
But hey, at least this room looks like it has been vacuumed in the time since Jimmy Carter took office.
So, anyway, that's my very long exam-day story, and it has a whopping two sentences to do with the exam. This is sort of a pattern in my life.
Also, there are probably typos in this, but I am simply too tired to care. So you see some homophone comphusion? Suck it. Candy.
And as a third post-script, if any of you are named Candy in real life, I'm sorry. No, really. I'm sorry.