Writer sometimes must leave the safety and comfort of her home. And in doing so, must stay at unfamiliar and strange places where millions and millions of others have stayed, leaving behind their skin droppings and whatnot. A writer writes to empty the over-active brain of all the skittering jittering thought—there’s not a thought that hasn’t thunked inside that chaotic blob of stupid—but it doesn’t stop the “What ifs” from pogo-sticking holes in said brainicles.
Upon entering hotel, sniff. If hotel smells funny, the nitty-ass irritating squeaky little shitter in brain says, “Hmmm, are they not cleaning the hotel regularly?” Glance quickly around lobby and desk area and if clean and sparkly it’s safe to check in. While waiting, scan for Strange-Faced Men who will catch your name and room number and then follow you to your room where Mayhem and Murder and Much More abound. It can happen, that little squeaky-voiced bastard nastily whispers.
Hotel clerk hands you room card. As you turn, an engaging-grin dude says, “Evening,” and you smile, flirtatiously but cautiously and warily and standoffishly. You say, “Eve-uh-er-ning, haha, teehee,” and as you look at your feet, the squeaky voice says, “The handsome friendly ones are the maniacs!” You say, “Shut up!” and look up with hooded mysterious eyes to Engaging Handsome, but he’s lickity-spit outta there.
Elevator—it could plummet to the bowels of hell. You knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who said someone who knew someone was in an elevator that plummeted ten floors thus shortening their legs by five inches. (Heart Palpitations Until Elevator Reaches Your 2nd Floor Room—stairs next time, but then Maniacs hide in stairways—augh!)
Enter room and if fresh-scented, sigh with relief as a blissful air of comfort invigorates your innards. Luggage must go on top of wood desk in the case there are verminy critters running around the carpet/floor/chair; you don’t want critters climbing into your luggage where they’ll hide until they can make a new home in your home. Why, even if hotel is sparkly clean, vermin are sneaky. Suddenly!, a memory washes over your brain with sudden flooding thought! You remember reading how even five-star hotels with two thousand thread-count sheets have been cited for vermin. Yeah. And you heard it on the news! And someone told you about it. And Google did too. If Google says it, then it’s really true! Your stomach goes akimbo.
Bed is type where nothing can hide underneath—genius! Check closet—maybe Maniac is hiding in there. Try to ignore the thought that if someone is hiding in there, as soon as you open the closet Maniac will jump out and maniac your ass to a bloody pulp.
Pull back covers to inspect sheets. They are a crisp blinding bleachy white. Yay! But wait. There are six pillows on that bed. Maybe the cleaning staff only thought they changed all of the pillow cases—sniff test. Ewwwww! Two smell like someone’s head. Throw heady pillows (and you laugh at the word “pillow” because it suddenly sounds funny, like sometimes words suddenly will on a sudden whim even if you’ve been saying and thinking them for years: Pillow, pillow, piiiillooow-haha!) on the floor so won’t accidentally grab them in the night and hold them close (stop judging me! *sob*).
Take out Clorox wipes and happily hum a jaunty tune as you wipe: the light switches, the door handles, the remote—especially the remote! We all know why!—the faucets, the toilet. Dance about the room—swipity-swipe-swipe-swipe—but not with your bare feet, since everyone knows the carpet is full of five million years of gross. [Read more…]