Cookies & Petrified Guests

So I have to make cookies every day at the inn. I don't make the batter, which I think is lame, but I scoop them from a big tub we buy at Sam's Club. The key to making the good ones is how long you cook them, whether they will turn out soft and chewy or crispy. I had one of a group of women who suck tell me that I should add more flour to the batter to give them more structure. I didn't even want to admit I scoop them from a tub. Anyway, she's one of those people who really annoy me by asking me if she can ask me a question, before actually asking the real question, every time she has a question. When people check in I always tell them that the cookies are for everybody and they're there until they're gone. Well, I got a call from somebody at 5.50 pm (when I go off duty in an hour) telling me that there were no more cookies. Of course while I wanted to tell them to fuck off, I realized I'd rather bake more cookies than have a crisis any day, so I made more cookies.

Another woman from the same party as above also told me she was severely afraid of my dog today. She also asked me why people get pitbulls and basically went over every stupid pitbull stereotype there was. I replied that I had gotten Pig from a shelter, after someone else tied her a mailbox and left her there for the ASPCA to find. I then added that any dog can be turned into the vicious dogs that newspapers are always reporting about that bite small children and turn on their owners. If you raise a dog to be fearful of people, to fight with other dogs, whatever, it will respond. If you train it to be a gentle dog, they also usually respond. This woman was obviously not a dog person, and had no clue what owning a dog that's not a fucking chia pet sized animal is like. I hate it when guests talk to me like I'm fucking crazy for owning a pitbull. I don't let her out without a leash, she doesn't live in the inn, and no one meets her who doesn't ask to meet her. I respect when people don't want to meet her, but they never seem to respect me when I don't think it's a good idea, like around kids for example. She's a rambunctious puppy herself, and I don't trust children to remain calm instead of freaking out and running around, egging the dog on. The most frustrating part of this is that guests think because they're staying in my house they have access to my person. It's things as little as commenting on my smoking habit, (always outside, never on a first meeting, etc) to questioning my life choices. None of them seem to understand that I might have very good reasons for the things I do, ways I feel, policies I follow, (and yet I'm not supposed to judge them about things they ask for, disgusting messes they leave in the rooms, stupid things they say to others, etc). For instance, they don't accept that I don't want to take over the business when el momm-o retires. I don't feel like I should have to back up why I don't want the inn, but they always want to know more. I need to make up a good lie. Like I'm engaged to a Nigerian multi-millionaire murderer who is getting out of jail in April and then we're off to Majorca to get married and live happily ever after. Where the fuck is Majorca anyway?

We Hate Her, Right?

This week I met a lady from my past, again. She called up, established she was a local, told me her name, which sounded really distinctive, but also familiar. You may not know this already, but the town I live in is crazy small. For the probably 66% I already know in some way, whether by name, face, annoying child, bad driving habits, mischief made, or crazy haircut, I remember about 10% of immediately why I remember them. The others I have to ask about. And then she hits me with an experience I had almost pushed to the limits of memory and the whole feeling of who I was at 19, and how different I am now.

Children, close your eyes, and harken back to your 19 year-old self. I personally was living with a dude and two cats in a duplex in a house. At this particular time I was taking a summer class in creative writing. I was also smoking copious amounts of weed with a good friend every day. On our way to class, we would often decide we should just go to the movies instead. When we did attend, we were usually high as shit, and would get very excited for our nightly pee-between-the-cars-in-the-parking-lot after class ritual. I can only imagine the number of times I probably came home with urine on my cuffs from cement splashback and never realized it. So chic. So this woman, the one who called up and booked rooms at the inn, was in this class. Not only was she in the class, but I remembered that she was maybe one of three people who still stand out in my memory, and she was the super weird, kind of bitchy, terrible writer. She had been a lawyer, then become a 3rd grade teacher in the Bronx, and every time she opened her mouth we were all reminded of her career change. She always wrote on legal pads, is that what lawyers do? I thought she was a teacher... Anyway, when she told me where the hell we should know each other from I knew there was no playing like I had a clue of what was happening during that class. I have no idea how I was able to summon the short story I actually wrote for the class, but I totally remembered her and how much I severely hated her. But hey, she was booking at least two nights, maybe more, meaning money for me and only a few short days of her, even if she turned out to be as annoying as I remember. She commented that she remembered me being both in my "camouflage phase" and as "pretty wasted". I'm so glad I made a good impression. And now she was coming to stay at my house, where I would be her "host." I immediately called said "good friend" and asked her if she remembered this woman's name. My friend couldn't quite remember, but she said "Hmm, we hate her right?" So, I held my breath and greeted this woman with open arms. She's actually not that bad. And she even admitted herself, (no help from me), that she was a terrible writer.

In other news, I've decided to take a tap class. Yes folks, tap. I took many years of dance as a child, forced my friends and relatives to go to annual, 4 hour recitals, and dressed up in garish costumes for showtunes numbers and ballet. It was completely ridiculous, but fun all the same. The dance school I attended had all sorts of body types, not just the muscular, dancer type. So no one felt like they had to be perfect and there were all sorts of girls with big boobs who had a terrible time bouncing around a lot. There were also strange-hipped girls, cheerleaders, hippies, morons and the like. It was a very well-rounded studio. But it was also strict about uniforms and I never realized how disciplined we had to be for that type of thing until now. It's been about 8 years since I took a dance class. A fellow alumni from dance school asked if I might be interested in taking a tap class together and I decided it was about time to get my cheese on again. We immediately went shopping for tap shoes. It was mad fun, but it also made me feel 16 again. We got a bit concerned when we didn't know what we were supposed to wear to class and called the teacher, and she sounded so relaxed and nice when she basically said to wear whatever we wanted, just to make sure she could see our feet. It was a nice feeling, like this could be actually fun and not stressful at all. Can't guarantee I'll make it to a recital though.

This weekend, I'm headed up to a Hudson Valley themed dinner at another inn. It's called Buttermilk Falls. I'm getting comped by a friend I know there who used to work here. Ex-coworker friends are good.