Stupidity Sandwich of Noise

Maybe I'M old-school.  And I don't mean I can't bring myself to hit bitches with big hammers, either.  Well I mean, I don't hit bitches with big hammers, but that's not what I'm talking about.  Really, it's cell phones.  Cell phones drive me mad.

Ear pieces are their own debate. I'm talking about full-on cell phone chatter.  Glued to your ear, talking away, making eye contact with the cashier/clerk/salesperson despite speaking to the phone.  It was only a few years ago that everyone knew that was bad manners.  Now you get to participate in idiotic discussions about who dissed who while crowded in W*lmart.  Now, if you have strong feelings about what that bitch said to you, you can rally the backup of the whole drive-through crew, the stockers, and the fuck-you-and-put-down-your-fucking-cell-phones.

Today, one such etiquette-murderess got exactly what she deserved, and despite the grating sound of it, I LOVED it.

First of all, she drives in at 2:45 AM drunk.  She DRIVES in drunk.  I actually thought she was the newspaper dude because it was the same kind of car.  When I saw her come in I hopped up to help her.  She asked, while on her phone, if I had a room available for the next few hours.  I now have a way to check people in without calling, but it's been so long since I learned how to use that program I'd rather ask someone to remind me first which fields to fill out so I don't mess one up.  I haven't done that just yet.  So I dialed up the number to central reservation.

Immediately she goes back to her phone conversation, speaking very, very loudly.  The walls behind me are actually echoing her voice back to me.  It's like I'm in a stupidity sandwich of noise.  It's hard to hear the recorded introduction to central reservations over the wind blasting out of her mouth and flinging my hair back.  I'm in a wind tunnel.  It's all I can do to remain standing straight and not be flung through the wall.  I think I've been connected to someone on the phone, but I can't hear anything over her voice.  It occurs to me that she is speaking so loudly and uninterruptedly that I can hear it again through the earpiece, and that someone in Europe must simply be very confused.  Then I hear very faint hold music.  Well, okay then.

I wait a little while longer hoping desperately that she'll hang up so I can at least ask for her license and credit card.  She finally says goodbye, in order to switch calls to someone else, who then asks if THEY can have room(s???), too.  I take advantage of the slight pause after her floating question mark to explain that I can't actually reach central reservation, and that because of the hour, it might be better for her to try next door.

She explains to the person on the other end of her phone about how weird it is that we would want her to go somewhere else.

Yeah...

Weird.


-Wednesday

He's Old-School

When I got here tonight, there was a group of seven or eight people QUITE inebriated at the bar, eating a delicous-smelling pizza.  I usually hate dealing with drunk people who stay past the bar closing, but these dude's were alright, if a little nonsensical (and sometimes pretty obnoxious).  I feel it's necessary to point out that one of these nicer of the fellas looks exactly like a hobo.  His beard was longer than my hair, and his hair was even longer.  Scraggly and pleasant to the max.

Here are some amazing excerpts:


"It's NOT YOUR FAULT, man, it's NOT.  YOUR.  FAULT."

"I love you, man.  I love you, man.  I love you, man.  I can't say it anymore, but I love you, man."

"Hey, hey!  How old are you little lady?" (suddenly from a completely different conversation with his friends)
"...What?"
"How oldr you?"
"22..."
"Dear lord, I got a grandkid your age.  But I love you."

"I can NOT find your room."
"WHADDYA MEAN?  I TOLD YA IT'S RIGHT UP THE ELEVATOR."
"I know, but with the elevator, I couldn't find it."

 "Am I your singer, am I your singer?"
"I'll be who you want me to be, HAHAHA!"

"I'm...I'm a dick.  No, I'm not a likeable person, I'm a dick."
"No...you seem nice..."
"Well, you're a beautiful."

"Your old man is a hard-workin' fucker."
"He IS a hard-workin' fucker."
"Your old man is a hard-workin' fucker.  Your old man is a hard-workin fucker."

"Poke him in is right eye, poke him in the right one."

"I had a big hammer in my hand one time, and I couldn't beat that bitch.  I don't know.  I'm old-school."

"They're inbred, remember, they're INBRED.  Their mother is their brother, or something."


-Wednesday

Hoodies More Dangerous Than Previously Thought, Reports the LOL

Breaking News, Fellow Lollers.

Our heater broke, and the lobby is currently a balmy 63 degrees Fahrenheit.  So I decided to break dress code a little and wear my hoodie over my button up shirt and slacks.  Well...I asked permission to.  I don't actually have guts, nor do I live on the edge.

Actually, I was particularly concerned about wearing an oversized hoodie with an out-of-town college name scrawled across it, due to the knowledge that I may very well have to tell some guests that we don't actually have room for them after all.  I figured that might be taken a little better by someone looking at a woman in a button up, professional-looking shirt.

In any case, nobody came in after I bundled up, so no worries.

In the morning, however, I was helping a fellow check out and back in, because one of the day shifts had experienced trouble making a continuous reservation and instead booked a few people for multiple days, re-checking in each morning.  It was taking a minute, but I was clearly helping a guy, when a fellow with a DESPERATELY URGENT NEED for coffee interrupted to ask if I worked there.

Nope.  I'm just playing on their computer while the real employees aren't looking.

Why do you ask?

-Wednesday



P.S. - Rest assured that your night auditor may very well be pretending he/she is Santa Claus when delivering your morning paper and bill.

I totally do.

In case you were wondering about the state of our floor...

It was once wet.  Very, very wet.

Also - do you ever mispronounce words in your head?  Mine just said "ruzzins."  Like raisins.

Or some miracle dried fruit related to the raisin.

That cures cancer, but only when correctly pronounced.  In your head.



You NEEDED to know that.
-Wednesday